


Accidentally in Love

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut, so much smut though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:42:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk is incredibly unhappy that Dave is never home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Christmas present for my friend Maddi (tumblr: karkats-thong). She thought it should be on here, so here it is!

You’re not sure how it happened, and you’re not particularly happy about it, but here you are, a twenty-six year old movie writer, known around the world for your ironic, twisted, and complex movies, lying in bed next to your sleeping fifteen year old brother.

Whom you just jerked off.

It’s wrong in so, so many ways.

But you hadn’t been home in a month – which, now that you think about it, was the shortest period of time between visits all year – and when you walked through the door, Dirk jumped on you and kissed you, full on the mouth. You caught him, of course – you weren’t gonna let him fall – and you instinctively reacted to the press of lips against yours. Dirk refused to let you go after that, dragging you into bed. You managed to stave off full intercourse, but you jacked him off. You put your hand on his dick and rubbed until he came. Your little brother.

And you did jack shit to stop it.

Hell, you helped it happen. You _made_ it happen.

You get up. The mattress doesn’t even move. You’re completely silent. You _have_ to be, or else Dirk will wake up. He’s like a marble statue when he’s asleep: he doesn’t move, except for the rise and fall of his chest.

But if you make the slightest sound, the statue will come to life.

How do you know that?

Oh, yeah, because he’s your little brother, and when he was younger and you were home more often and he got sick, he’d sometimes crawl into your bed, and even the slightest movement woke him up.

You pull your crusty, cum-covered shirt over your head. It hits the floor with a muffled sigh. You freeze.

Dirk’s breathing doesn’t change.

You open your drawer, as slowly as you can manage. When it’s opened an inch, you grab the first shirt you see and pull it out. You don’t bother shutting the drawer – more noise isn’t necessary. You flashstep out of the room and pause, listening.

You hear nothing.

You pull the shirt over your head and grab your bag from where you left it by the door. You pull out your phone as you quietly shut the door and lock it behind you.

“Hey, Johnny, can you check me in to the next flight out to Colorado? …Ten minutes? No, I won’t be able to make that. Ok, so maybe I lied. Not the next flight out. Is there any flight that leaves two, maybe three hours from now? …Perfect. Put me on that one. Yeah, sure, first class works. No, just one seat… Why? Eh, it’s too loud to write at home… yeah, sure, book me a room too. Thanks, Johnny. Remind me to give you a raise, I think this is the third time this week I’ve woken you up at a strange time. Thanks. Tell your wife I said sorry. Bye.”

Two hours later, you’re on a plane as it taxis down the runway. Your phone begins buzzing frantically. You glance down. Dirk is calling.

You shut off your phone. It’s dangerous to take calls while a plane is in flight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave comes home.

It’s nearly a month and a half later when you get home again.

You took more precautions than you could possibly count: you didn’t tell Dirk you were coming home, you drove five miles per hour the whole way down the street so that he wouldn’t hear the car coming, you didn’t even bother locking the car – the alarm would make noise – and you’ve never turned the key to the front door so quietly in your whole miserable life.

Despite the fact that it’s one in the morning, the house isn’t completely dark.

It’s still dark enough that you trip over something on the floor, though.

You pick it up. It’s – a plushie? Something about it makes your face heat up before you’ve even registered what it is.

Its nose is a dick.

And it has a rather plush rump.

Where the fuck did Dirk get this?

You jump as you hear a noise from Dirk’s room – the only room in the house with a light on. He’s groaning.

Your heart starts pounding. Someone broke in, someone broke in and they’re hurting your little brother –

You flashstep over to his room and stop, dumbstruck, in the doorway.

There’s no enemy here.

Dirk is naked on his bed, one knee tied to his headboard, the other leg hooked over the side of his bed. It takes you a minute to process that that thing up his ass is one of the puppets you tripped over in the hallway, and that the noise is coming from the puppet – like there’s a vibrator in the thing’s nose.

And it’s up your brother’s ass.

And he’s making the most incredible noises you’ve ever heard.

You stand there, in the doorway, trying to ignore the fact that your dick is hard as a rock, and watch as your brother’s toes curl up, his head twists to the side, his hand grasps his erection, and – oh god he knows you’re here –

Wait. Wait, no, he doesn’t.

That’s bad, though. That’s bad.

That means that he screams your name while masturbating on a regular basis. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow these chapters are short.

He stumbles into the kitchen the next morning in boxers and a sweatshirt, rubbing his eyes and yawning, blonde hair sticking up in all the wrong ways.

He stops dead when he sees you.

Your heart is pounding, and you sincerely hope he can’t hear it. “Morning, kid. Want eggs?” You push a plate of scrambled eggs towards him. “They’re hot, I just made ‘em.”

He stares at you as he picks up his fork. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time he’s eating. He’s a marble statue with an automated arm.

“You’re up late,” you say with a glance at the clock. It’s eleven in the morning.

He forcibly swallows an enormous bite of eggs without chewing. “I was up late. What time did you get in?”

“Around two in the morning,” you say. Two in the morning was about half an hour after he stopped yelling your name.

“Oh.”

“So what are the penis plushies lying around?” You nod at one of the plushies, currently sitting in your blender. You’ve been finding them all morning. It’s not hard. They’re everywhere, in everything.

“Smuppets. I started making them a few months ago. People buy them. I’ve made ten grand already.”

You choke on your eggs. “ _What_?”

He glares at you. “Maybe if you were home more, you’d know.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to tell me –”

“Well, I was going to tell you last time you were home, but you left pretty friggin fast, didn’t you –”

“ _Dirk_.”

Apparently, he hasn’t forgotten that when you use that tone, it means he’s about to get in trouble. He falls silent.

You have temporary peace.

“Why don’t you talk anymore?” He asks.

“The fuck are you talking about? I’m pretty sure that what I was just doing was called _talking_.”

“Yeah, but you used to talk constantly. Non-stop metaphors. Hours on end of you rhyming every sentence. You’ve spoken a grand total of what, twenty words since I got up?”

“It’s called growing up, Dirk. Everyone does it. You’re supposed to do it. It’s good for you. You have to get older, more mature. You grow out of the shitty things you did when you were little.” You hope and pray that he takes the hint – well no, you don’t pray, because if your prayers are answered, that means God exists, and if God exists, your ass is going straight to hell.

“You still write the same shitty fucking movies you did when you were younger,” he points out.

“It’s a part of me that turned out to be good. It worked. It made us money, and it let me take care of you when you were little. It’s _socially acceptable_.”

“The hell it is,” he yells as you stand. “Your movies are pure shit, completely meaningless, but you call it irony and people buy it. The second they realize it’s just bullshit, they’re going to –”

You don’t know when it happened, but your hand is around his throat. “You idiot,” you growl. “You’re fifteen, you don’t get it – you don’t get anything. You’re just a teenage boy with an incest kink who spends too much time alone.” You release him and stalk off towards your bedroom. You print off a plane ticket as you get dressed, and as you walk out the door, you yell over your shoulder for him to make some friends and get out of the house sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, shame, more smut, less shame.

It’s nearly two months before you return home, and you don’t bother trying to keep your arrival a secret.

You practically kick the door down, in a bad mood before you even walk in, and –

The house is clean. There aren’t any smuppets lying on the floor. There’s a robot standing in the corner, but it’s completed and clean, not covered in motor oil or dust. The rug even looks like it’s been vacuumed.

Your bad mood disappears, like it never existed at all.

You check all the rooms. Dirk isn’t home.

You take a deep breath. It’s like you have your own house. For the first time in your life, you’re in your own house, alone.

A note on the kitchen table says that Dirk won’t be home until tomorrow.

You eat alone, in your own kitchen. You shower in your own bathtub. You sit in your own living room for hours and don’t turn on your TV for the sake of the silence that settles around you, comforting and warm.

Dirk appears to be backing off. Good. That one night, months ago, was an accident, a fluke, and it’s never fucking happening again.

What happened last time you came home, though – that’s not something you’re likely to forget.

You wish he wasn’t your brother. You wish he was legal.

You decide to stop thinking things.

Unfortunately, when you let your mind drift, it drifts to the way Dirk’s hair fell across his forehead when he threw his head to the side, how the piece of cloth he used to tie his leg to the bed looked against his skin, how he sounded when he screamed your name –

You take another shower. A freezing cold one that doesn’t even count as a shower – just you, standing directly underneath the jet of frigid water, shivering until your boner disappears.

You go directly to sleep, refusing to give yourself the chance to think.

Your dreams are hazy, misty, blurry. You float, asleep, with nothing to anchor you, until something explodes against your mouth, a tiny star dying against your lips. You feel a pinprick of coldness against your shoulder, and then another one on your throat, and then sudden warmth on your nipple.

Your eyes fly open.

Dirk kisses you.

You’re too shocked to kiss back.

He’s kneeling on top of you, and he begins grinding his hips against yours.

His breathing hitches, and you’re ashamed to say that yours does too.

“Dirk – this isn’t – you shouldn’t – _Dirk_ –” You do your best to make that sound like it wasn’t a moan.

Dirk is completely shameless, rolling his hips, grinding his boner against yours – because your body is a traitor, and you’ve got a raging fucking boner. He’s gritting his teeth, air whistling in and out between them, and his leg twitches and he falls a little to the side and must have hit a sensitive spot, because he gasps and his eyes fly open and he loses his rhythm, rutting as fast as he can against you, fingers grabbing your waist so hard you’re sure he’s leaving bruises. Your own fingers are tangled in your sheets, much as you wish you could wrap your hands around his waist – which you wish nearly as much as you wish neither of you were wearing boxers –

He moans your name.

Oh. Oh god.

He’s moaning your name, “Dave, Dave, _Dave_ , _oh god Dave_ –” and it shouldn’t be a turn-on but it is, you are so turned on, and then he’s cumming, he’s cumming in his boxers, his legs are squeezing you as tightly as they ever could and he’s saying your name, just your name, fading into a clenched whisper as he hunches over, head nearly touching your chest, shaking like a leaf.

Two seconds later, he’s gone. He’s flashstepped right out of the room.

You pull your aching erection out of your boxers and begin pumping, without worrying about moisturizer or lube because – because – you’re cumming, all over your stomach. That’s all it took. There wasn’t even time for the friction to hurt.

You stare at the clock as your breathing returns to normal and you process what happened. Irrationally, the first thought that crosses your mind is that it’s still dark out – Dirk didn’t wait until tomorrow to come home.

The second thought that crosses your mind is that it’s two o’clock in the damn morning, and yeah, the kid waited until tomorrow to come home. The problem is that tomorrow is today.

When you wake up again, hours later and badly in need of a shower yet a-fucking-gain, the house is quiet.

You shower.

The house is still quiet.

You search the rooms.

Dirk isn’t home.

What?

You search them again.

He’s not there.

Was he kidnapped? You can’t imagine that any human being would be able to break into your house without waking you up, let alone kidnap Dirk without getting a faceful of katana.

Did he leave? Maybe he realized how fucked up it was that you didn’t even try to stop him last night and ran away and –

You hear a car door slam outside.

You’re at the window in a second.

Dirk is getting out of a car, a bag over his shoulder. He waves as the car drives away, and pushes the door open. He glances at you. “Did you just take a shower?”

“Yeah.” He’s not even wearing the clothes he was wearing last night – although, to be fair, he was only actually wearing boxers last night.

“Sorry I wasn’t home last night, this new video game came out and I went over my friends house – we were up all night playing it, you’d have been pissed if you couldn’t go to sleep when you got home because we were screwing around with the PS3.”

“No, it’s fine. Very grown-up of you, actually. I’m proud.” Every word you say is casual, and you can’t help but be impressed by your own acting abilities.

Clearly, he didn’t come home last night.

He had felt so real, it had felt like he had woken you up, like he’d been right there, grabbing your waist –

But then he had disappeared. Because you woke up, for real? Had you been asleep up to that point?

Oh god. Did you have a wet dream about your little brother?

You’re tempted to take off, but Dirk challenges you to a round of his new game, and it would be selfish to leave now, when Dirk appears to be growing up; after all, he doesn’t know what you dreamed about last night, and it’s your problem, not his.

He beats you at four rounds. You only win once, and it’s only because Dirk lets out the biggest yawn you’ve ever seen in the middle of a battle.

“Go take a nap, kid. You look exhausted.” You punch his arm gently. “I’ll put this away.”

He looks anxious. It’s not much – just a tiny crease of the brow, a tightening of the eyes – but you recognize it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just – I don’t want to go to sleep if you’re leaving in a few hours.”

You sigh. “My plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I promise I won’t leave until then. Go take a nap.”

He disappears.

You put the controllers away.

You make him lunch when he wakes up.

You sit and watch as he explains his newest robot to you – it raps with him.

You vaguely remember him complaining that you don’t speak anymore. You know he’s right. You hate talking to the paparazzi and interviewers you’re always surrounded by, and over the years, you internalized and then dropped your habit of dragging out your sentences.

He made a rap robot to replace you.

You make an effort to talk the way you used to at dinner. “Frigging chicken…” that’s it. That’s all you can get out. And now Dirk is staring at you because you’re cursing out your chicken. Like you’re fuckin’ insane. Crazier than a dude in solitary confinement for thirty years. That dude would look at you and think you were messed up.

You smile a little. It’s coming back. It’s on its way. You’re gonna have a break-through like the kool-aid man, screaming _oh yeah_ the whole way like you’ve just had the best orgasm of your life –

It’s not stopping.

Was this what your brain was like before you got famous?

Why did you change?

As soon as you think the word _change_ , your brain starts throwing out connections: change, like money; change in society; changed personally; changed for good – oh, that’s a line from _Wicked_ , with Elphaba the green girl, green like the fairy in _Moulin Rouge_ , the fairy on that bottle of alcohol, you don’t remember what it was but it was famous for that green fairy, as famous as you were, no, that’s a lie, nothing can ever be as famous as you are, you are at the top, you are at the top of the food chain, a lion in a world full of gazelles –

“Dude, you’re muttering to yourself,” Dirk says, but there’s a trace of a smile around his mouth. He knows that if you’re muttering, it’s because you’re trying to slow down your thoughts long enough to figure out what you’re thinking, because your brain is going a thousand miles a minute. If Vanessa Carlton moved as fast as your brain she could walk those thousand miles in sixty fucking seconds, guaranteed, stamped with the Strider seal of approval –

“Dude.”

“Sorry.”

He returns to his video games, and you wash your laundry. He goes to sleep not long after.

You stay up a little while longer, appreciating the peace and silence of your empty living room and a little bit nervous to go to sleep. But you can’t stay awake forever, and midnight finds you passed out in bed on top of the covers.

You sleep just like you always do, like you’re floating, surrounded by darkness and blackness. There is no light, and does not need to be.

Until there is.

A sudden _ping_ of light cracks the darkness, and now that you’ve seen it, you know you need that light. You know because you know what that light is, and you know that you need that light, you need it, more than you ever realized, and you pull yourself towards the source of that light and find Dirk, lips on your shoulder, grinding his erection down against yours.

God knows you know you shouldn’t be having this dream, let alone enjoying it, but fuck everything, you can’t control your subconscious, and you may as well enjoy what it gives you. You wrap your hands around his slim hips and let your head fall to the side and your eyes catch on the clock by your bed, which reads 1:39.

Something about that jostles your memory.

Dirk’s movements are pretty friggin distracting, but you manage to follow that memory to an article about lucid dreaming and waking yourself up in a dream. “ _Get into the habit of looking at clocks while you’re awake_ ,” it had said. “ _Clocks in the dream world don’t have real numbers on them. If you look at a clock and it’s got strange symbols on it, you’re asleep._ ”

This clock has real numbers. You go over them one more time: 1:40. Real numbers.

This isn’t a wet dream.

You’re awake.

You sit up in a flash and wrap your arms around Dirk – just in time, too, as you barely prevent him from flashstepping his ass out of there. He stares at you, orange eyes wide in the dark.

“You idiot,” you say softly. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“Figure what out?” He asks innocently.

“Did you really flashstep all the way over here last night just so that you could dry-hump me in my sleep?”

His cheeks flush as red as your eyes. “You woke up. And you didn’t stop me. Hell, two seconds ago you were holding me there, in place, rubbing against you. You like it.”

He has a point. A shitty one, but a point all the same. And it’s one you’re going to have to think about later, but right now, you have an erection, he has an erection, and he’s sitting in your lap.

He begins rolling his hips against you again.

“You little shit,” you say softly, careful not to let even a trace of a moan enter your voice. “You think you can get out of this with only a little cum in your pants.”

He becomes as still as a statue, marble in your hands.

You might not be a sculptor, but this particular piece of marble is yours, and you know how to handle it.

You kiss him, gently.

He’s a sloppy kisser.

Of course, he’s only fifteen.

You do your best to ignore that.

You force him to slow down, force him to take it easy, to stop slobbering all over your mouth and to start using his tongue properly. You slowly move away from his mouth to trace his jawline, and nibble on the shell of his ear. He tilts his head to the side to give you better access, eyes half-shut. You use the tip of your tongue to connect the freckles on his neck, and you follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with your lips.

You move down his body, mapping it with your tongue and teeth, hunting down his sensitive spots and teasing them until Dirk is half-sobbing, begging you to touch him. Your marble boy has become putty, and it’s time to reshape him into something new.

You push him backwards and shimmy his boxers down. You leave them around his knees, and twist them so that he can barely move. You slide up over him. “You sure you want this? You can still back out, y’know,” you whisper in his ear.

He nods frantically. “Yes, yes, oh god, Dave, _please_ –”

You slide back down and push his legs to the side and slide his knees up towards his chest, twisting his body in a way that was probably painful, but which Dirk didn’t complain about.

You use your other hand to spread his ass. You rub circles around his asshole with your tongue, feeling his legs twitch and listening to him moan your name – yell your name – beg for more –

You stop.

“The fuck are you doing go back keep doing that please _please Dave please_ –”

You ignore him, instead pulling his legs down and sitting on his feet. It puts you the perfect distance away from his hard-on to allow you to flatten yourself along his legs and pull his entire dick into your mouth.

You feel his legs pushing up against you. You reach up and grab hold of his hands, refusing to let him move. You begin sucking, rolling the walls of your cheeks against him, wrapping your tongue around him, grazing your teeth up the sides of him, and humming until he cums – which doesn’t take long, but hey, he’s young – yelling your name, his entire body resisting yours on top of his.

When he quiets down, you move off of him. He sits up, breathing like he’s run a marathon, looking at you like you’re a god.

“Well? Y’gonna go to sleep now, or what?” You ask. “If you try to sleep in my bed, I swear on my life –”

He’s kissing you again, one hand fumbling with your boxers, one hand entirely removing his own boxers, getting them out of the way.

“ _Dirk_ –” you gasp. “ _What are you_ –”

He’s straddling you, smearing your precum over your head, weight disappearing and reappearing as he flashsteps to your dresser for moisturizer and returns, warm hands clashing with the cold moisturizer against your dick as he rubs, pushing and pressing and tracing veins as he kisses you, pushing his tongue inside your mouth and beginning a tongue war like none before it. And god, your body is going to kill you – you’re groaning into Dirk’s mouth, pushing into his hand, holding him against you, and you’re pretty damn sure you’re going to leave bruises.

You explode all over his stomach.

You feel a whisper of his grin before he disappears, right out of your hands.

You sigh as you realize that you weren’t holding him in place before, when you woke up – he didn’t want to move.

Just another problem on your ever-growing pile of them, and every single one of them has Dirk’s name on it, and every single problem is building on a solid foundation of incest and statutory rape. It’s like a fucking pyramid, but before all of the solid gold coating was stripped away, because it still looks fucking gorgeous to you, but you’re damn sure there’re fifteen traps just to get through the goddamn door, and if you ever manage to get through that mile-high stack of issues and clear it all away you’re gonna come out the other side a wreck.

The shower starts up.

A picture flashes through your mind, of Dirk’s hair flattening under the jet of water and water streaming down his body as he cleans your cum off his body –

You scrunch your eyes shut and think about nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The shower runs forever.

You’re strangely happy, the next morning, that Dirk doesn’t wake up before you leave.

It helps that you leave two hours earlier than you need to.

You know you should really sit down with him and have a talk, tell him that what happened last night can never happen again, but you don’t want to.

You’re running away, and perfectly willing to admit it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Dirk!  
> Smut.

Your most recent trip is cut short, and you return home three weeks after you left: it’s Dirk’s sixteenth birthday, and you have to be here to preside over whatever he’s doing with his friends.

It’s actually a school day, so it doesn’t matter that you get home at one in the afternoon, which is hours earlier than you usually get home: Dirk isn’t there.

That’s good, it is, really. It means you have time to situate yourself, get used to your house, make yourself comfortable so that when Dirk comes home you won’t be susceptible to his advances.

You hear the school bus pass.

You wait.

And wait.

It’s been ten fucking minutes.

The boy flashsteps faster than you ever could. It does not take him ten minutes to get home from the bus stop. To be perfectly honest, he could flashstep home from school in less time than that.

You stand up and instantly there are cold lips against yours. You’re dimly aware of the front door slamming shut, no one there to shut it gently, because the person who opened it is in your arms and pressed against the entire length of your body. You feel the ache of an erection building, and you should pull away, you should stop this, you shouldn’t be doing this – you don’t care –

Dirk disappears.

You turn to find him sorting through the video games. “A few of my friends are coming over in an hour – we’re just playing video games and watching movies, nothing big, and they’ll be gone by midnight. Could we order pizza?”

You open your mouth to say something about his rather inappropriate conduct, but some shitty part of your mind reminds you that you took part in it. You sigh. “’Course, kid. Happy birthday.”

The next hour is a DYFS agent’s worst nightmare, as Dirk runs around filling bowls with chips and setting out video game consoles and controllers, breaking every few minutes for a kiss. About halfway through, he starts tasting like Doritos, and you make it your personal mission to clean the taste out of his mouth.

You’re a horrible human being.

You feel an enormous amount of relief when his friends arrive, although they stare at you like they’ve seen your eyes.

Maybe they’re staring at you because you wear your shades inside the house.

But they don’t stare at Dirk like that, and he’s got his weird pointy anime shades on.

One of them says he saw your interview on Dr. Phil.

You grimace. That explains a lot.

The Douchebag Doctor had tried to psychoanalyze you, hunting down deeper meaning in your movies in all the wrong places and trying to help you fix your own screwed up subconscious by assuming all of the things in those movies came from your own twisted desires.

Actually, considering your past few visits home, he was not far off.

Still the worst interview you’ve ever done.

You’re still not sure why you agreed to it.

Dirk changes the subject, gracefully, with minimal cursing.

You watch him conduct his friends like a skilled maestro, guiding the conversation and carefully choosing the proper movies and video games to keep everyone happy. You order pizza at five, like a normal older brother, and when it comes they choose to eat in the living room. You offer to grab drinks.

At the same moment, that round of their game ends. Dirk passes his controller to his friend. “I’ll be right back – I’m going to go help carry drinks, okay?”

He follows you into the kitchen.

“Having fun?” you ask as you pull cans out of the fridge. You turn around, and his orange eyes are right in front of your face, his shades in his hand. He pushes you into the counter and attacks your mouth, pressing his hips into yours. He’s there for half a second, not even long enough for you to react, and then he’s got thirteen cans of sprite in his arms and he’s walking out of the kitchen at the slowest pace you’ve ever seen him move – although to be perfectly honest you’ve only ever seen him flashstep.

You follow him out, ashamed to see that he’s less flustered than you are, although he’s got his shades on again, so maybe there’s something in his eyes that shows he’s flustered – but you’re just thinking up random shit to make yourself feel better, there’s nothing, Dirk is like a marble statue, the only thing you can ever know is what he shows you, even when you think you can see what’s under his façade you really can’t, there’s just more marble, and the only reason why you know him any better than anyone else – and you have to face the fact that you really don’t know him all that well – is because you raised him, for a little while, until he was eleven and old enough to be left at home alone while you went out, doing interviews that you hated and meeting with directors and producers and actors and marketing your movies. And even after your movies could basically stand on their own – even after you were so well known you could request that other people come to you – you didn’t come home. And now it’s too late; everything you do is based out of Colorado, states away from your Texan home. And you don’t want to uproot Dirk just so that you can keep him next to you.

You feel the ache of guilt worming its way into your stomach, making you a little nauseous.

You’ll have to come home more often.

A little while later, Dirk asks you to take out the cake to defrost.

You didn’t get him a cake.

Oh my god, you didn’t get your brother a cake for his birthday.

But you go into the kitchen anyway, preferring to go through the motions and tell him that there’s no cake later rather than now. You open the freezer.

There’s a fucking ice cream cake sitting there.

He got his own goddamn birthday cake.

Your guilt cranks up a few notches.

You set it on the counter. It has “Happy Birthday Dirk!” written in orange across the top. You dig through the drawers and find candles and a lighter, and as soon as the cake is soft enough, you stab sixteen – wait, no, seventeen, aren’t you supposed to include one for good luck? You definitely did that for him when he was younger – seventeen candles into the cake, sixteen of them in a circle around the edge and one in the middle under his name.

You head into the living room. “You guys almost ready for cake?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Dirk answers. He unglues his eyes from the screen for a moment to smirk at you. He doesn’t even miss a beat in his game.

Which brings up a question. Last time you were home, he yawned and lost the game. Now, he can look away from the game and _gain_ points.

He _let_ you win last time.

God dammit.

You wait until the round is almost over before you light the candles, and you insist that they come into the kitchen for that – there’s no way in hell you’re bringing fire into your living room.

You sing Dirk happy birthday and he blows out the candles with one breath, staring at you over the rims of his glasses as he puffs out his cheeks and blows. You flatly refuse to react, choosing to think about the script for your latest movie instead.

You hole yourself up in your room for the next few hours, writing and wishing you were in Colorado, where you could get actual work done instead of here, where there’s so much noise coming from the living room that you can mentally recreate the scene in your head and see Dirk beating all of them.

They don’t watch a single movie; they just play video games, game after game, constantly yelling for a rematch, yelling that Dirk must have cheated, that there’s no way someone could go from last place to first in that short a time span. Dirk’s friends are stupid. Don’t they know that everything he does is impossible?

Midnight comes, and all of them are gone, incredibly enough. You’re one hundred percent sure that Dirk got them out on time, managing the impossible once more.

You open your door.

Shockingly enough, Dirk is standing there. This is not a development you could have predicted, and you certainly did not open the door for the specific purpose of saving Dirk from waiting there for hours.

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you down for a kiss. You indulge him for a minute before gently pushing him away. “I have to shower,” you say, forestalling the lengthy protests you foresee.

He glares at you.

“What? It’s been a long day.”

That should not be the only reason you’re turning him down.

You start the water and divest yourself of your clothing. You watch as steam rises, sincerely hoping it doesn’t set off the smoke alarm. You hiss as you step in, the water scalding your skin, but that’s okay, that’s how you like it. Fire cannot burn a dragon, and you’re a fucking dragon, with blonde hair and eyes as red as dragon scales, and you cannot be hurt by hot water, it’s impossible, it’s – _oh sweet Jesus that’s cold_.

You whip around, searching for the source of the frigidly cold air, and find Dirk standing an inch and a half away from you, naked as the day he was born and holding a bottle of lube and an open condom. “ _Dirk_ ,” you say warningly.

“What?” He steps forward so he’s standing under the stream of water with you, and his hair is flattening out, rivulets of water running down his body, orange eyes bright even with the steam swirling around you, and he’s a problem, he really is, and you start babbling.

“I’m trying to take a fuckin’ shower, what do you think you’re doing opening the door and letting in cold air, I take hot showers because I want to be in an oven, not an icebox, who gave you the right to open the goddamn door, even you aren’t fast enough to keep the cold air out, the air is faster than you are, it’s the master of flashstepping, no one can beat it–”

He kisses you, pushes you back into the shower wall. You hear a _thud_ as you hit the bottle of shampoo and it drops.

There’s a strange dichotomy between the cold shower wall, the cold air outside of the hot water, and the heat that is Dirk’s body pressed up against yours. You can feel his burning hot erection pulsing against your thigh, and you remember it in your mouth and your hand, and if you didn’t have an erection of your own before you sure as hell have got one now, and – “Dirk, what–” He’s rolling the condom down your dick, opening the bottle of lube, “Dirk–”

He looks up at you, eyes sparking with determination. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Ok, but there’s more than one way to do that, this isn’t–”

“Up the ass. I want your dick up my ass.”

“Well, ok, that’s explicit, but this is wrong, so wrong, in so many ways, this is a whole other _level_ of wrong from what wrong was before–”

“You licked my asshole last time you were home, how is this any different?”

“Because it is, it’s _very_ different, different in a new bad way, you’re my brother–”

“And you’re barely ever home, so it barely counts. Fuck me.”

He hitches a leg up around your waist.

“You didn’t get me a birthday present. Think of this as my birthday present.”

And oh, god, he’s right, you didn’t, you didn’t get him a cake and you didn’t get him a present, you basically forgot about his fucking birthday, and guilt pushes away the rest of your inhibitions because if this is what he wants – well, he’s right, you’ve been a shit brother, who are you to say no? You sigh. “Ok, but not right away.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He asks indignantly.

“Calm down, jeez. It means that if I just shove my dick up your ass, I will break things that are not meant to be broken. It means that foreplay isn’t even foreplay, it’s fucking preparation, so–”

“Fucking preparation? Was that a pun?”

Your train of thought crashes to a halt as you think back on your own words. “Shit. An accidental one. Anyway. This isn’t how things work–”

“Then how do they work?”

This isn’t going to work if you’re the one against the wall – you can’t hold him up and keep your balance. So you press him gently against the flatter wall. “Wrap your legs around my hips. I won’t let you fall.”

He does it fearlessly, letting you move him up a little farther so that he won’t fall on your dick. Either he trusts you, or he trusts his ability to flashstep away if he starts falling.

You lean against him, keeping him stuck between your body and the wall, and coat your fingers in lube. He watches every move you make, like he’s committing them to memory – which he might be, actually.

You’re perversely glad for a minute that you’re his first time; he might have ended up having sex with someone who didn’t know what they were doing, and who knows what trouble he’d have gotten into then?

You begin slowly inserting your finger into his ass, and he clenches up around you. “Don’t do that. You need to relax, or I’ll never be able to stretch you out. It’ll be really friggin’ uncomfortable, but it’ll get better, I promise, and if you can’t take one finger there’s no way in hell I’m sticking my cock up there.”

He nods, and visibly tries to relax.

“Hey, if you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” you tell him. “If you’re not comfortable, or if you want me to slow down, just say the word, and I’ll do whatever you say, all right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Dave. Let’s be honest. If I didn’t want to be here, I could flashstep away and be in another state in five minutes. You’re not strong enough to hold me in place.”

He’s right, and you both know it.

His ring of muscle relaxes, and you slide your finger in a little farther, watching his face tense up in concentration as he focuses on relaxing.

You plant kisses all over his face. “Relax, relax,” you murmur soothingly. “Deep breaths. Relax.”

Slowly, you manage to get your entire finger in. You start pushing a second in. His face contorts. You pause and wait, letting him breathe again, and push in farther. You kiss him gently, trying to distract him in any way possible, but he doesn’t kiss you back. You’re hurting him. “Do you want me to stop? I can stop, it’s not a big deal, it hurts, I get it–”

He shakes his head. “No, keep going. It feels good after a little while, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then keep going.”

So you keep pushing in that second finger, and when it’s all the way in and his breathing has returned to normal, you start scissoring your fingers. You can feel him relaxing and stretching around you. You begin searching with your fingers, for that lump of tissue that should be – that’s it – you jab it.

Dirk makes a high-pitched whining noise, and his entire body clenches up around you. With the force with which he threw his head back, you wouldn’t be surprised to find that he cracked the shower.

You continue scissoring your fingers as his breathing returns to something approximating normalcy.

“Is _that_ what you meant when you said it gets better?” he asks.

“Kind of. Are you still ok? Are you ok if I put in a third finger? Or will that be too much? I don’t want to hurt–”

“Put it in,” he commands. “I’ll be fine.

And he’s right. He’s much better now; clearly, the uncomfortable part is over.

Now that you’re not worried about him, you’re becoming aware of your erection and his, all of your senses heightening. The water on your back feels hotter, Dirk’s muscular body feels harder, you can feel the empty space around your cock and you need friction, you need to touch something, _god_ you want to be up his ass –

“I’m ready,” he says breathlessly. “Fuck me, Dave, _fuck me_ –”

You’re more than ready to fulfill his request, and you pull your fingers out of him and hold him in place with your body as you slather lube on your cock. You grab his waist and lower him gently onto you. He reaches down and grabs your dick, aligning it with his asshole. His face scrunches up as you enter him, and you pause, but he says “keep going, keep going,” in a strangled voice, and you lower him down until you’re balls-deep in his ass, and it feels so good, he’s so tight, squeezing your dick in just the right way, and you want to move, but he still looks like he’s not breathing, and you don’t want to hurt him, “if you’re not ok we can stop, don’t worry about me, I won’t think any less of you or be angry at you or–”

“Shut. Up.”

You shut your mouth, but there are words sitting on your tongue, struggling to get out. You compromise by using your mouth for other things, nibbling on his ear and his jaw and kissing his neck, and when he starts rolling his hips you start moving, in and out, in and out, aiming for his prostate every time and hitting it a good portion of the time, listening to him moan and whine and say your name, over and over again, feeling the hot water pounding against your back and ass, and his habit is wearing off on you, you’re saying _his_ name now, “Dirk, oh god, Dirk, yes, you’re so tight, I didn’t think it was possible to be this tight, oh my god, you’re beautiful, look at you, like a fucking work of art–”

He shuts you up again, this time by occupying your mouth with his, sucking on your lip and refusing to let you go, and you’re going to cum soon and you know he will too, and you let go of his waist, trusting to his death grip on your body to keep him from falling, and grab his dick, stroking and pressing and flicking your wrist and doing your best to mimic with your hand what he’s doing with your ass, and he’s stopped kissing you now, because he’s busy whining your name, groaning your name, making noises you’ve never heard and making your name sound better than it ever has, and he doesn’t even care when you start babbling again, groaning his name and spewing shit about how perfect he is – you’re pretty sure you thank him for letting you fuck him at one point – and he releases, his entire body shaking, shuddering, clenching up, squeezing your dick in a whole new way, and that’s it, you hold on to him as you explode inside him, your entire body made up of nerve endings, intensely aware of every sensation, of every place his body is touching yours, every millimeter of you that’s inside him, every drop of water smacking against your back, the feel of his teeth on your shoulder, how he shakes with the aftershocks, how he clings to you like you’re the only thing in the entire world that’s real.

When you finally open your eyes again, his head is buried in your neck. You stroke his hair, running your fingers through the heavy, wet locks. “You all right?”

He nods against your neck.

“You sure?”

He lifts his head up. “Yes I’m fuckin’ sure.”

He looks absolutely exhausted. You remember that he had to get up for school this morning, spent hours playing video games with his friends, and that it’s now past midnight, and that screwing always puts you straight the fuck to sleep.

“Stay in here for a few minutes, you probably need a shower too,” you say, grabbing the sponge and soap.

You scrub him and yourself down, and grab the bottle of shampoo off the floor, noting the way his eyes find your ass while you’re bent over. You wash his hair, and he forces you to bend over so he can wash yours. He laughs when shampoo gets in your eyes, and his laugh and smile are so beautiful, so different from the angry teenager you’ve been coming home to, that you don’t mind the pain. You’d do it over again, just to see his smile.

You kiss him impulsively, and he kisses you back enthusiastically, overcoming his exhaustion for the sake of your lips.

He asks if he can sleep in your bed tonight.

You want to say no, but you also want to say yes, and it’s not like there’s any reason for you to say no: anything you were trying to avoid has already happened. So he spends the night in your bed, and a good portion of the next three days in there too.

He asks you to stay home a little longer.

You say no.

When it’s time for you to leave, he kisses you desperately, and disappears.

The lack of noise in the house tells you he probably went out the back door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in the Strider household!   
> Smut.  
> From here on out just assume there's smut unless otherwise stated because wow there's a lot of porn.

You’re back home for Christmas a few weeks later, and you get to stay home for a full week.

You’re completely prepared for Dirk when he appears in your arms as soon as the door shuts behind you, and you really cannot excuse your conduct, allowing him to drag you straight into your bedroom, pulling off each other’s clothes along the way until you’re pushing him down into the mattress and pulling his legs around your waist, covering your fingers with lube from a bottle that appeared out of nowhere – by which you mean to say, Dirk flashstepped away from where he was ‘trapped’ underneath you, grabbed the lube, and was back before you even fuckin’ noticed – and sliding a finger up Dirk’s ass. It’s nothing like the first time; he knows that the faster he relaxes, the faster you can get far enough up his ass to hit his prostate and the faster you can get his dick up his ass, a place you’ve been longing to be for weeks now.

Something’s different, though, this time. Dirk stops you before you can get any more than your middle finger buried inside him.

A wave of unexpected fear crashes over you. Did he realize how fucked up this is, how abnormal? Is he done with you and your messed up psyche?

“Can you tie me up?”

Your brain crashes like a Windows computer, complete with Blue Screen of Death. “What?”

“Can you… tie me up?” He’s blushing, he’s actually fucking blushing, he’s been screwing his brother like a whore and had no problem with that, had no problem with getting in your shower with you and asking you to fuck his ass, he had no problem dry humping you in your sleep, but he has a problem asking you to tie him up? The longer your silence goes on, the redder his face gets, until he’s the same shade as your eyes. “I – I mean, if you’re okay with that, I don’t fuckin’ know, I just…”

“Dirk?”

“What?”

“I’m screwing my little brother and you’re worrying that I’m not kinky enough for bondage?”

He’s wiggling uncomfortably underneath you. His boner hasn’t softened at all, in spite of his embarrassment, and the way it’s moving against your stomach is rather distracting. “Well, I mean, one kink doesn’t mean you’ve got another, and besides which, I don’t think you _have_ an incest kink, I kind of forced it on you, didn’t give you much of a choice, so–”

You roll your eyes, sigh, and stand.

He appears in front of you, mildly panicked. “Oh god, don’t leave, _please_ don’t leave–”

You take him by the shoulders and maneuver him back onto the bed. “Sit. Breathe. I’ve gotta find something.”

He takes a deep, exaggerated breath and watches you, tense, and you get the feeling that if you tried to go for the door you’d find him blocking your way.

Fortunately, you’re not going for the door, you’re going for the dresser.

You feel his eyes on your ass as you bend to open the bottom drawer, rummaging around until you feel the corner of the shoebox. You pull it out and open it, and set it next to Dirk. “What’d’ya wanna use?”

His eyes gleam as he pulls out a set of handcuffs, with felt wrapped around the shackles – you were never a big fan of wrist bruises, as they were very visible and people asked about them.

“What is–?”

“Cock ring. Stops you from orgasming.”

He sets it down next to the handcuffs.

He digs through the rest of the box, but sets it aside. “Maybe another day.”

You’re suddenly terrified that you’re going to come home to find that he’s taken the entire box.

You think about what he’d look like tied to a headboard with a vibrator on high up his ass and a cock ring on, and suddenly, you want to bequeath the entire box to him.

“Listen, I know this isn’t exactly full-on bondage, but I want you to pick a safeword anyway. Just in case.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but picks one anyway: “Platypus.”

“ _Platypus_?”

“There is no way in hell I’ll ever yell that if I’m enjoying myself.”

You want to respond, but what can you say, he’s got a point. You choose to ignore the fact that he didn’t even have to think about the question.

You cuff his wrists to the headboard, watching his blush fade into a pink flush of excitement. His eyes gleam as he watches you. You consider blindfolding him, but you want to see his eyes, you want to watch his eyes follow your movements, watch them roll back in his head when you move the right way.

You slide the cock ring over his dick, wincing when he gasps. “Sorry, I know it’s kind of a weird feeling–”

He shakes his head. “It’s _cold_.”

“Here, lemme heat it up for you.” You take his penis into your mouth, suppressing your gag reflex with practiced ease. Dirk moans. You take your time, knowing he’s not coming anytime soon with that ring on.

You set your hand on his leg, not to hold it in place, but to feel it twitch and jump as you suck. You look up at him, and are incredibly disappointed to find that he’s not looking at you. The view from here really is incredible – an infinite expanse of his smooth skin, scarred in a few places from strifing when he was younger, the entire length of his neck, his pale face turned to the side, his arms stretched above his head. But still. You pull off his dick with a _pop_. “Yo. Dirk. If I’m going to do all this work, you’d better be watching.”

He lifts his head up and opens his eyes, staring you down.

You slowly move your mouth back down the entire length of your penis, watching as the impassive haughtiness in his eyes flickers and disappears, and turns into heat and need as you bob up and down. You listen to his breathing falter, hitch in his throat, and turn into moans as he watches you, his orange eyes glued to your red ones.

You return to your earlier work of stretching out his asshole, and this time he lets you continue, fitting three fingers inside of him before you pull your mouth up to the tip of his dick, hunt down his prostate, and push, listening to him yelp and feeling his hips jump up, pushing his penis down your throat. You wait for his hips to fall back down onto your fingers, and hit it again, watching his eyes roll back in his head before he regains control and looks back down at you, mouth slightly open, eyes devoid of their usual calm veneer, chest rapidly rising and falling.

You begin rapidly jabbing it, pushing his hips up to your mouth, humming, vibrating your throat around his dick, feeling his feet kick against you as he scrabbles for purchase against your body. You shift your weight so that you’re holding his legs down.

You don’t stop until the only sound coming from his mouth is a high keening noise.

You kiss him as you roll on a condom and lube up, but he doesn’t respond, probably because he hasn’t even gotten his breath back. You pull his legs up around your waist and slide inside him, moving slowly as he gets his breath back, but unable to keep it up for long; your dick is aching, leaking precum, so hard it hurts. You quickly find yourself driving into him, watching him strain against the handcuffs, feeling him shudder and shiver and jump around you and underneath you, listening to him scream your name. You aren’t exactly silent either, babbling incessantly about how perfect he is, how much you love hearing him scream your name, how incredible he is, how you never want to leave again. But he doesn’t tell you to shut up this time; he’s too busy screaming your name, begging you to fuck him harder.

When you can feel the tightening that means you’re going to cum soon, you pull the cock ring off Dave’s dick and smash your dick into his prostate while you jerk him off, forcing him to cum before you do, fucking him even after his toes have uncurled and he’s shuddering with aftershakes. You explode inside him a couple minutes later and barely remember to hold yourself up as your body shakes and clenches.

When you find the energy to pull out of him, you pull off the condom and throw it in the trashcan.

You turn back to him to find that his eyes are closed, and he’s lying limply on the bed, no longer fighting his handcuffs, the sweat cooling on his forehead.

You dig the key out of the box and unlock the handcuffs, and replace them and the cock ring in the box, making a mental note to clean off the ring when you get a chance. Dirk flops down on the bed, eyes half-closed, his entire calm-and-cool persona gone.

You kiss him gently, and are relieved to find him responsive. You feel mildly guilty about bringing him to climax when you knew you still had time.

Also, there is a strong chance that you kept stroking him even after he came, overstimulating him.

You scoop him up in your arms and carry him to the bathroom, at a normal speed, no flashstepping involved. You seat him on the toilet. “Wait here a minute.”

You flashstep out into the kitchen, where you find a footstool, one of those little ones people use when they can’t quite reach the top shelf. You’re back in the bathroom two seconds after you left.

You see the barest hint of a smile flicker across Dirk’s face. “Slow.”

“I am not, you’re just a speed demon. Zooming everywhere. Mr. Zoom Zoom. Like Road Runner.” You continue to spout bullshit as you put the footstool in the shower and turn it on, giving the water a couple seconds to heat up before you lift Dirk – who puts his arms around your neck like a damsel in distress whom you’ve just saved – and set him on the stool, under the water. You grab a towel, fold it up, and use it as padding, so that you can kneel on the floor of the bathtub without destroying your knees beyond repair.

You kneel in front of Dirk and begin cleaning him off, wiping the cum off of his stomach and chest, kissing where you clean. When you glance up, his eyes are closed, but his face is peaceful.

You turn him around on the bench and wash his hair. “I really hope you didn’t shower yet today. Showering too often is actually bad for you, y’know that? It makes your hair fall out. You’re gonna be bald by the time you’re twenty.”

He tilts his head back so that he can look at you, smooshing soapy hair against your chest in the process. “I don’t understand how it’s possible to say the same thing fifty different ways in the span of ten seconds, and still manage to get live, televised interviews at the drop of a hat.”

“It’s called personality. You wouldn’t understand.”

Dirk laughs as he lifts up his head, allowing you to continue massaging shampoo into his skull.

You let him stay in the shower while you wash yourself off, and when it comes time to wash your hair, he insists that you turn around and sit down so that _he_ can wash your hair.

He talks about how happy he is to be on Christmas break, how happy he is that you’re home, how happy he is that you were ok with tying him up, how happy he is about a billion other things, and you don’t even care that he’s talking non-stop, because he sounds happy, he really does, and even after he’s washed the conditioner out of your hair and there’s no reason to be stay in the shower you continue to sit there, leaning against his legs, your head in his lap, his fingers brushing through your hair, his voice weaving stories for your ears alone. You run your fingers up and down his legs, tracing patterns that don’t exist for the sake of touching more of him, of feeling more of his skin. You stare up into his eyes. “You’re very optimistic after sex,” you point out lazily.

“How many people get _pessimistic_ after sex?” He asks.

You’re pretty sure it was a rhetorical question, but you have a great story, so fuck it. “There was this one girl I screwed once who – I mean, _she_ came up to _me_ at a bar, _she_ brought _me_ back to her place, _she_ asked _me_ to have sex with her, and we had sex, and it was great, she came twice, there was nothing to complain about. I was lying there with her afterwards and she starts talking about how many papers she had to write, how big a waste of time sex was, how much she could have done instead, how big a piece of shit I was for wasting her time when she could have done better things… she went on and on for ten minutes straight before I decided I’d had enough of it and left. And while I was walking out the door, she was yelling at me for not spending the proper amount of time with her. _Weirdest_ person I’ve ever fucked, and that includes you, you kinky motherfucker… or, should I say, brotherfucker,” you chuckle.

Dirk stares down at you. “Brotherfucker? Really?”

“Really. Like a weird Oedipus complex.”

“You do realize that you’re a brotherfucker too, right?”

Your grin disappears. “Shit.”

He laughs. “Great. Then can we just retire that word? Forever?”

“Why, are you uncomfortable? Christ that is ironic–”

“No, I don’t give a fuck, but it’s an idiotic word.”

He’s right – he’s been right very often, lately – and in any case, _you_ are uncomfortable with it. “All right.”

“Really? That easy? No arguing?”

“Do you want me to argue?”

He makes the strangest expression you’ve ever seen. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Jeez, you’re a weird kid. One moment, commenting on the fact that I’m not arguing, the next moment, getting annoyed at the suggestion that – _holy fuck_ that’s _cold_!” You yell, barely stopping yourself from shoving yourself backwards and crushing Dirk as the hot water runs out and turns cold. Suddenly, the cold water is gone, there’s no one behind you, and you realize how much it says about Dirk’s speed, that you notice the lack of the cold water before you notice his absence.

“I think it’s time for bed,” you suggest as Dirk towels himself off.

You know for a fact that he’s drying himself off like that on purpose. People don’t generally take that much time rubbing a towel along the inside of their thigh.

You flashstep out of the bathtub and kiss him, and he grabs your arms and flashsteps and – oh, oh my god, he moves really fast, you’ve never moved that fast before in your life, you’ll never admit it but you’re a little dizzy, like you went on a high speed merry-go-round – and he pulls you down onto the bed and curls up against you.

“Did you really flashstep over here just to go to sleep?”

“Yep,” he confirms, his voice already thick with sleep.

You can’t tell how much of it is an act and how much of it is him actually falling asleep. When he was little, you’d glance in his room and see him lying there, fast asleep, and you’d shut his door and make a move to clean up his toys and then he’d be there, in your way, tiny arms crossed over his chest – “I’m playing with those tomorrow. Don’t put them away.” You’re pretty sure he learned to flashstep specifically to fuck with you.

Or just to fuck you.

But you really, really hope that that wasn’t his original intention. That would just be weird.

As opposed to what you’re doing now, which is not weird at all.

“You’re muttering to yourself,” Dirk says. “Shut up.”

“You’re the one in my bed,” you remind him. “You could just go back to your own room and–”

Dirk slaps a hand over your mouth. “No. Shut up.”

You suppose you could bite his fingers. But he’d pull his hand away, and you’d bite down on nothing. So instead, you hug him a little tighter, and do your best to shut up.


	7. Chapter 7

You’re back again a month after Christmas, and you know you swore to yourself that you’d be coming home more often, but writing a screenplay is the strangest job on the face of the planet and involves a shitload of time and work, and you barely managed to carve out the time to come back for the weekend.

Dirk leaps on you as soon as you walk through the door – actually, he doesn’t _leap_ on you per se, he just appears there, somehow mid-kiss before you even process the fact that he’s there. 

“How long are you here for?” he gasps against your mouth.

“Just until tomorrow evening.”

“Fuck,” he yells, and then he’s kissing you with twice the force he was using before, spitting venom at you between kisses. “You – couldn’t – spend – more – than – one – night – here – if – I – _died_ – for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry – I know – Dirk – _Dirk_ – I have – I have to – _watersports_ –”

And he’s gone, across the room, pressed against the wall. “What? No, no no no, I am not into that, don’t you dare–”

“Oh, thank god–” you breathe as you flashstep into the bathroom.

When you step out of the bathroom, he’s waiting for you, tapping his foot. “ _Watersports_? You couldn’t just say you had to pee? Dave–”

But you don’t let him finish, you’re kissing him and scooping him up and flashstepping into the bedroom – ignoring his muttered “slow as fuck” – and then he’s gone, standing shyly in front of your dresser, holding your box of toys, and you choose to ignore both the fact that he’s bothering to act shy and the fact that he got out of your arms, got into your dresser, dug out your box, closed the dresser, turned around, and stood all hunched over like he was hiding something, and did it all before you even noticed he was gone.

“Dirk?”

“Can I tie you up instead?”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “What?”

“Can I tie you up instead?”

“Shit yes!” Your little brother is becoming a dom, you’re so proud.

“Um… do you… have any preference for any of the stuff in here?”

“If it’s in there, you can use it on me.”

His eyes gleam. You wonder how much of his shyness was him actually being reluctant to suggest this, and how much of it was him emotionally manipulating you.

He pushes you down into the bed, and your wrists are tied to the headboard. Not, you lie there while he ties you up – just, you’re lying down, and then you’re trussed up like a fucking turkey on Thanksgiving: your knees are tied to the bed too, and you _really_ don’t get how he did that or where he got the rope that’s currently tied around your knee, passed under the bed, where it’s hooked around something that’s preventing you from moving your legs downward, and tied around your other knee. That rope isn’t yours.

“You move too fucking – mmph,” you groan as a ball gag appears in your mouth.

Your vision goes black, and for a moment, you’re terrified – _please don’t let me be dead, don’t make Dirk have to untie and dress my dead body and have to explain why his DNA is all over me –_ but then you understand: Dirk has blindfolded you.

You vaguely remember making the decision, multiple times, not to blindfold him so that you could see his eyes. Apparently, Dirk doesn’t give a shit.

You don’t even have time to feel put-out about it before something hot and wet is on your asshole, circling and rubbing and teasing, and you’re moaning around the gag, and you wish you could speak because you’d be saying so many things right now, spouting shit about his perfect mouth, and wow, you think you understand why Dirk gagged you, but then his mouth is on the head of your penis and you don’t understand anything anymore.

His mouth is hot and wet and he’s sucking and humming and licking and you want to say he’s done this before, but he uses too much teeth once or twice the way only an inexperienced person would, and you recognize every single movement as one you’ve done on him, and you realize that this is the first time he’s ever given a blowjob, he learned everything from you, and he’s good, he’s damn good, so good – shit – you think – you’re going to –

And then his mouth is gone, and your penis hurts, it hurts so bad, you want him back, you wish you weren’t tied up so you could grab him and fuck him until he screamed your name, but you’re tied up really fuckin’ tight here.

You wait, your entire body tingling, but there’s nothing.

Not even the lightest touch.

You wait, and you know he’s just standing there watching you, because it doesn’t take him this long to do _anything_. He could have gone to the next state and been back by now.

You wish you could say his name, but there’s still a fucking gag in your mouth.

Which brings up something else. How are you going to say the safeword, if you need to?

You gently test your bonds. You could probably break them if you have to. You’re not stuck here.

You begin to worry that he somehow managed to forget about you.

Your erection begins to die.

And then his mouth is there, sucking and licking at everything, at every inch of your body, and dear lord, why didn’t you think of doing this – it’s incredible – he’s moving so fast it feels like he has fifteen mouths – unless he was gone for so long because he was gathering friends, in which case you are a whole new kind of fucked – but no, he slows down, and there’s only one mouth, grazing along your collarbone, up your throat – pausing there for a few minutes when he feels you shudder – and over your jawbone – you feel his hot breath on your mouth, and wish the gag wasn’t there so you could kiss him – and you feel his lips touch down gently, all over your face, and judging by where his lips are and the angle at which they’re touching your face, he’s hovering over you – you push your body up as much as possible –

And he’s gone.

There’s a sudden wave of kisses down your thigh.

Gone.

A tongue weaving patterns across your stomach.

Gone.

A hand fitting itself to your ribs.

Gone.

This is bondage like you’ve never known in your life. With most people, you can tell if they’re still in the room; it’s a rare person who can silence themselves enough that your incredibly sharp ears can’t pick up the light sound of their breath, or the padding of their footsteps. You’ve never told anyone – you’re certain that your ears are sharper than most, and the sounds that you can pick up are far outside most people’s hearing range – but with Dirk, you can’t even tell if he’s in the goddamn house.

In one of the periods in which he effectively disappears, you reflect on how strange it is that you’ve never been so sexually satisfied in your life as you are when you’re with your brother.

It ain’t normal.

A hand tightens around your dick for one short, quick stroke.

Gone.

You’ve stopped having one-night stands, when you’re in Colorado.

His tongue slides up your ass.

Gone.

Your coworkers have noticed.

He bites down on your throat.

Gone.

When they ask, you shrug and say you’ve got more self-control now. You’re not just a kid right out of college anymore.

He sucks on your nipple.

Gone.

Your colleagues – usually anywhere from ten to thirty years older than you are – usually laugh when you say that.

And then Dirk is sliding one lubed-up finger up your ass, expecting it to be a while before he could insert a second one.

You’re not going to lie and say you haven’t been finger fucking yourself for the past week and a half, stretching yourself to the point where Dirk can insert a second finger almost instantly.

You were lonely and horny and there isn’t a single person in Colorado – or anywhere, really – who can do what Dirk does, or whom you can trust with the color of your eyes, or your name, or even a good look at you in dim lighting, for fear that the next morning there’ll be pictures on the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Dirk will never tell a soul.

 Within seconds, he’s hitting your prostate, and suddenly the blindfold doesn’t matter because your eyes are clenched shut as he hits your prostate hard and fast, faster than you ever could, it doesn’t matter than his fingers are lubed up, with the speed he’s going he’s going to start a literal fire in your fucking ass and how the hell are you going to explain that to the doctors at the hospital there’s no way you can do it Dirk is going to have to take care of you all on his own you won’t be able to fly back tomorrow

 

Several minutes later, your mind returns to a near steady mental state as he withdraws his fingers. You’re gasping for breath, your thoughts are scattered, gone, gone with the wind, and frankly m’dear you just don’t give a damn and – wait – they’re coming back, your thoughts are coming back. You still can’t breathe, but you can definitely ramble on as you have entire conversations with yourself in your head.

You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow. Dirk is going to have to drive you to an airport. He’ll have to push you around in a wheelchair, because there’s no way you’re going to be able to stand up.

Dirk is licking the entire length of your dick, pressing his entire tongue against you, moving slowly – well, not _slowly_ , but it’s still the slowest thing he’s done all day – in a way that’s probably meant to let you get your breath back.

He stops when you start moaning, the ragged, animalistic sounds muffled by the gag.

“Jesus, you’re sensitive as shit,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t sound particularly angry about it, so you decide you don’t give a shit.

Also, you’re not sensitive, he’s just got magic fingers – or a magic mouth – or both, both, both is good, that’s from a movie, _Road to El Dorado_ , isn’t El Dorado some place that has to do with gold, there’s definitely gold there, but it doesn’t matter, because Dirk’s not there and you won’t go anywhere that doesn’t have Dirk, and in any case Dirk’s hair _is_ gold, spun gold, more precious than – his dick is pushing against your ass, his dick is pushing against your ass, red alert, red alert, oh god, you’re trying to rock forward as you moan, but the kid is a fucking asshole, every time you rock forward he pulls away and disappears, and when his dick finally presses against your ass again you hold perfectly still, allowing him to slide inside you at his own pace, which is excruciatingly slow, the last time you saw this kid move as slowly as he is now was his first day of school when you were trying to get him on the bus and oh – nope – now you’re thinking about his childhood – not good – you go back to thinking about his dick up your ass and that’s good, he’s moving now, rolling his hips and smearing precum all over your dick, and wow, that feels incredible, and then he’s pulling out of you and _shit lord almighty dear god_ _how does he know exactly where your prostate is how can he possibly hit it without even experimenting first_ you don’t know the answer to your question but you really don’t care or you _do_ care you just can’t think and yeah that’s it, that makes more sense, you can’t think, you can’t fucking form a single fucking thought, but Dirk is stroking your dick and slamming into your ass and hitting your prostate every time and you can only imagine what position he’s in, because there really isn’t a position that makes sense, but clearly he’s figured something out, and he’s making more and more noise, gasps and moans and grunts and whines and your name is sprinkled liberally between all of them and you’re trying to form his name, but it’s not coming out – oh yeah there’s a gag in your mouth isn’t there – and you’re straining against your bonds and you’re scared you did something wrong by pulling at the handcuffs but Dirk doesn’t disappear, he’s still inside you, still slamming into you, rubbing your dick, and when your toes curl up and your muscles stiffen and strain against the bed and the ties he doesn’t stop you no he does not he helps you cum and you can’t breathe and you can’t see and all you know is that wave after wave of the greatest pleasure imaginable is sweeping across your body and in the background you hear Dirk gasp and then scream he’s screaming your name and you know he’s releasing inside you and the only part of you that’s making any sense is hoping that he’s wearing a condom but does it really matter no it does not and

 

And you begin to come down, the stars clearing from your vision, feeling coming back to other parts of your body, and along with that comes the realization that Dirk is lying on top of you, his chest rising and falling against your stomach, his head resting on your chest.

You wish you could ask him to untie you, but there’s still a gag in your mouth and – oh, no, there isn’t, and you’re not tied up anymore. The blindfold disappears.

Dirk is still lying on top of you, and you don’t particularly mind. You stroke his hair gently, rub his back lightly. “Y’know,” you say softly, “for future reference, if you’re domming for anyone other than me, you have to take care of them afterwards. I don’t care – this isn’t exactly intense bondage – but. In case you ever need to know.”

He doesn’t bother answering.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“I am.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m not, I just want to make–”

“No, I mean tomorrow. Please don’t leave tomorrow. I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either, but I have to. I could barely find the time to come here this weekend.”

He doesn’t answer.

You’re starving.

But you lie there for a little while longer, holding Dirk, rubbing his back, and whispering that you’ll always come back, you’ll never leave for good, you’ll never forget about him.

You don’t think it helps very much.

You don’t leave his side once, until you have to leave for the airport.

Or _he_ doesn’t leave _your_ side.

You really couldn’t say for sure that it’s one or the other. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk's a weird student.

As the months pass you begin to learn things about Dirk.

If you call him up, he will talk to you for hours on end, regardless of the time, his homework load, or whether or not it’s a school night.

The first time you called him, you called him wearily, worried that within five minutes you’d be having phone sex, and while it’s not something you’re particularly averse to, you’d like to have a relationship with your brother that isn’t based solely around sex.

The only time during that entire conversation when he said the word “dick” was when he was describing his teacher – “that dick gave us five chapters to read, it has to be done by tomorrow.” “Did you read it yet?” “Didn’t even start.” “I should get off the phone then, you’ve got work.” “If you hang up I will find you and I will chain you to your bed. And _not_ in a sexual way.”

You find out that, in spite of the money Dirk has made – you haven’t seen any smuppets or robots lately, but according to your cousin, Rose, who checks up on him and taught him how to drive, he’s making a killing on both – and his ability to get anywhere within seconds, if you tell him to stay home, he’ll stay home. He doesn’t always agree with you, but he does what you say.

You get a call from his math teacher one day, asking if it’s all right to move him up a class: “It’s incredible, he’s done all the math in the entire book, every single problem, and he’s gotten all of them right. I had him stay after school one day, and I made up the hardest problems I could imagine. He stared at them for two seconds – no, not even – for half a second and he knew the answer. And he was right, every time. I can’t in good conscience keep him in my class – he’s _bored_ , he’s in calculus and he’s _bored_.” You gave her permission, of course. The next time you call Dave, he doesn’t mention it. When you ask about it at the end of the conversation, he shrugs. You can’t see him, but you know, you know he shrugged. “I had to learn calc for my robots. And of course, she thought I did nothing but look at the problem – I worked through the whole thing on the board, got up and wrote the entire thing down and worked it out and erased it, and she didn’t even notice. It’s not a big deal.”

His guidance counselor calls. “I’m concerned about Dirk’s mental state. He appears constantly bored, and he doesn’t laugh or talk with his friends. I understand completely if you don’t want to pay for a therapist, but the school has a therapist with whom Dirk can meet for free. I feel that a session or two would be good for him.” You talk to Dirk about it. Surprisingly enough, he agrees to go to a session. You don’t even have to suggest it; you merely mention that his counselor suggested it.

You get a call from the therapist two days later. “I’m afraid I can’t give Dirk the help he needs. He flatly refused to say a word for the first ten minutes, gave the most cryptic answers I’ve ever heard in my twenty years of working here when he finally began speaking, and when I asked about what he liked, he began talking about robots, and took the conversation to such a technical level I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.” “I understand. Dirk can be a very strange boy sometimes, and you don’t get paid enough to handle his brand of strange.” You heard her sigh in relief before you hung up the phone.

You’re home the day before Halloween, pulling into the school parking lot in the loudest, most ostentatious red car you own. The principal called the other day, asking to have a talk with you.

You give your name and enter the office. You take a seat. You do not remove your shades. You haven’t taken them off outside the house since you were five years old.

“Mr. Strider, we’ve been having some problems with Dirk. He sleeps straight through every class–”

“No, he doesn’t.”

The principal’s nostrils flare. You’re sure he has to put up with parents insisting that their children are angels all the time. Well, you’re a little different. You’re Dirk’s brother, not his dad, and you would never make the mistake of calling Dirk an angel.

“Mr. Strider, I understand that this can be difficult to hear–”

“He’s not sleeping. I’ll show you.”

You see him give up. If he can’t convince you of this, he can’t convince you of anything. He stands. “Fine. Mrs. Maryam?”

“Hmm?” His secretary answers.

“Could you please tell me what classroom Dirk Strider is currently in?”

You hear typing. “413, Sir.”

“Thank you.” He turns to you. “Shall we?”

You follow him across the school.

The door is open. The principal glances in. “Sleeping.”

You stand in the doorway. Dirk’s head is on the table, and his eyes are closed, his shades in the hand dangling two inches off the floor.

The teacher notices you, and recognizes you. “Are you here for–?” she nods at Dirk.

You nod. “Hey there bro, I hear you’ve been sleeping in class?”

His head is up, shades on. “I ain’t sleeping.”

The principal sighs. “Mr. Strider, your eyes were closed. If we ask your teacher, I’m willing to bet they’ve been closed all class long.”

You look towards the teacher, who nods.

“Dirk. What has the teacher been talking about?” You ask.

“ _The Awakening_ by Kate Chopin. Chopin was raised by her mother and grandmother; there were no men in the house, in spite of the time period. She got married to some dude that she loved, but he died, and her doctor suggested she start writing in order to cope – she had the same kind of relationship with her doctor as Edna does in the novel. Edna is also an example of a woman ahead of her time; she sees that she wants love, but also that she wants agency, and throughout the novel, her eyes are opened and she is awakened. In the beginning, we see that she’s got a great husband – even though he’s a bit of a douche, always leaving her home alone-” you pretend not to notice that that part was pointed at you – “and she’s got kids and friends and a nice house, but she’s still not happy. Now, that’s all we’ve covered in class today, but I read the rest of the book already, and basically, she realizes that she has a body and a brain and a mind of her own and she wants to be able to use it the way she wants to, without having to worry about society, and then – spoilers ahead – when the dude she _actually_ loves turns her down, and she realizes that she would never be happy even in a ‘perfect’ relationship like the one Adele Ratignolle and her husband have, and she wades out into the sea – symbolic of rebirth, freedom, and death – and drowns, and it’s not clear whether or not it’s on purpose, but judging by the fact that she doesn’t panic, and that she strips down before she goes in, I’d say she does it on purpose. Of course, there’s also evidence to the contrary; there’s the symbolism of a bird with a broken wing, falling into the sea and struggling to avoid it, and if we’re saying the bird’s Edna – which it basically is – than Edna is injured, and really didn’t want to die, but could never have survived.”

There’s a pause.

“Also, Miz M received a text from her fiancé fifteen minutes ago, while we were listening to the song from _Zampa_ that’s in the novel, and she answered it, even though she yells at us all the time for having our phones out in class.”

Another pause.

“And the kid in the seat all the way in the back right corner scratches his balls when no one’s looking.”

Everyone turns to look at the kid in the back right corner.

“And–”

“I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Strider,” the principal says, silencing Dirk.

“I don’t sleep in class.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.”

“Why’re you here? I thought you weren’t supposed to fly in until tomorrow,” Dirk asks.

You point at the principal. “He asked me to come early. Said we had to talk about you. Apparently, you’re really friggin problematic, like if someone found a ten-year-old PC that’s been sitting in the dump for thirty years, slowly falling apart, and tried to make it work again.”

“That’s a shit comparison.”

“Yeah. You’re only what, sixteen? Not ten anymore.”

“You said a TEN year old PC that’s been in the dump for THIRTY years.”

You think back. He’s right. “Fu – fudge.”

He’s gonna give you hell for that later. _Fudge_. Like none of the kids in here have ever heard a curse.

“Mr. Strider, you’ve made your point, I think it’s time we return to my office,” the principal suggests.

“Well, Dirk should come too, he’s the one this concerns, not me.”

“Yeah, Dave’s not home enough to have an impact on my behavior,” Dirk says, and does no one else hear that bitter undercurrent in his tone?

“I don’t want to take him away from class–”

The teacher snorts. “He just recited the lesson plan for the next two classes, he knows anything I could get through in the next ten minutes. Take ‘im.”

The principal huffs. “Fine. Both Mr. Striders.”

Dirk gathers up his books and follows you out.

He walks a foot behind you.

“Movin’ slow today, huh?” You ask.

“I always move this slow in school.”

Oh yeah. “Damn. How do you get anywhere?”

“Like a fuckin’ sloth. Moving so slowly I grow mold.”

“You could make a game out of it. See how long you can take to get to your next class. I dare you to take the full amount of time between classes.” You drop back so you’re walking next to Dirk.

“How the hell would I manage that? Moving this slow takes practice. It’s an art form that I don’t want to perfect.”

You chuckle, then think of something. “Wait. I’m home early.”

“Yeah.”

“The house is a wreck, isn’t it.”

“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as a work in progress.”

“If I go home and there’s motor oil _anywhere_ , I am going to chop your head off.”

For the first time since you saw him on the desk, he grins. “I’d like to see you try.”

“There’s a new katana coming in tomorrow.”

“Is it a piece of shit?”

“Of course.”

“Perfect.”

“I’m sorry, did you say _katana_?” asks the principal. You won’t lie. You forgot he was there.

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a weapon?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Strider, that sounds rather dangerous–”

“We’re in Texas, surrounded by mentally unstable gun-slinging rednecks, and you’re worried about a katana?”

His face turns bright red.

The rest of the meeting goes just as well, which is to say, you and Dirk talk at top speed – you grinning often, Dirk’s face a blank, expressionless mask – and the principal’s face gets redder with each passing second.

He lets you go early.

“Sweet of him, don’t you think? Letting you out before school ends?” You grin as Dirk flashsteps to your car and waits impatiently as you follow at a normal speed.

“He’s a dick.”

“You say that about a lot of people.”

“And I’m usually right.”

You slide into the car.

Dirk still isn’t smiling.

“Hey. Are you all right?” You reach over to run your hand through his hair.

“You came home early.”

“Yeah, but I figured you’d be happy about that.”

“You didn’t come home for me. You came home because that son of a bitch accused me of sleeping in class and doing drugs and bringing alcohol to school and asked you to come into school to talk to him about it.”

“He asked, and–”

“And I ask all the time and you don’t even switch to an earlier fucking flight!” He yells.

You pull out of the parking lot and pull over to the side of the road, where the shoulder widens and people can’t see you. You put the car in park and – is that – is – oh god, you made him cry. You pull his shades off and drop them next to yours and grab him in the tightest hug you’ve ever given anyone.

Dirk doesn’t cry like other people cry. He doesn’t sob, or hug you back, or make noise, or go limp in your arms; he’s a marble statue with water leaking from his eyes. “Dirk. I didn’t come because he asked, I came because you were in trouble. I came because he was saying shit about you, and I wanted to see his face when he found out that you’re a genius and he’s got nothing on you. I’m not here for him. I’m here for you. I’m here because it sounded like people were trying to bury you under a load of shit, and no one, _no one_ is allowed to do that to you.” You press your lips to his head, smell his shampoo, feel his hair give a little underneath you. You close your eyes as he melts, his body molding itself to yours as he wraps his arms around your waist and buries his head in your chest. You hear something that might be a sob, but when he pulls away, his eyes are dry. He sits back in his chair and slides his shades on.

You wait a second, but if he were going to do anything, he’d have done it. You pull back out into the road and drive home.

You expect him to shove you through the door, jump you, do something in keeping with his usual need to get you in bed as soon as possible, but he doesn’t. You ask if he wants to play video games with you, but he says no and shuts himself in his room.

The house is spotless.

Dirk was lying about the mess.

Or he cleaned it in the split second between the time when he unlocked the door and the time you walked through it, which is far more likely.

You wait.

He doesn’t come out of his room.

You knock on his door. He doesn’t answer or come out.

You really hope he’s still in the house.

You can barely remember the last time you were in your house without Dirk. The house begins to feel big, like it’s growing, and it feels empty.

You find yourself glancing around, expecting to see Dirk, and when he’s not there, you feel a little lonelier.

Finally, you knock on his door, warn, “I’m coming in,” and push it open. You’re not overly worried about invading his privacy. What would you have to worry about, walking in on him masturbating? You’d probably just be turned on.

Which is a pretty big problem, actually.

You decide not to think about that at the moment.

His floor is made of newspapers and scrap felt, all of which is stained with oil. Dirk is sitting on his floor wearing a black tank top and black sweatpants, his shades tucked into his shirt, feet bare, hands stained with motor oil as he tinkers with a robot chassis. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, but the door doesn’t slam shut in your face and he doesn’t throw anything at you, so you assume you’re allowed in – or, at least, not totally unwelcome.

You squat next to him. “What’re you working on?”

“Strifing bot.”

You watch him tinker with it, noting the speed at which he moves – slow – and the gentleness with which he handles the parts. He doesn’t move fast when it comes to the robots he makes for himself; he moves slowly, carefully, as he creates his metal works of art. He might be a marble statue, but his preferred material is steel.

“Will it be able to hold a katana?”

“It had better be able to.”

Each short sentence feels like a cut, like he’s slicing your skin with his icy-sharp words. You wish you could hear another one of his long, rambling sentences, one of the ones that drag out forever.

You sit with him while he works. At first, he ignores you, flashstepping around the room to get things he needs. As the minutes pass, he begins asking you to pass him tools, begins explaining what he’s doing, why these two pieces need to go together and why those two pieces must be kept apart at all costs.

Two hours pass, and by the time the near-finished-but-still-headless strifing bot stands in front of you, Dirk is back to his usual self, grinning at you and rambling on about a book he read and about Rose’s face when she walked in and tripped over a smuppet.

You make dinner, fried rice and broccoli, and as you eat, you notice a gleam in Dirk’s eyes – a very, very recognizable gleam – and you smile a little as you take his bowl and yours to the sink.

You drop them both in the dishwasher and turn, and Dirk pushes you into the counter, kissing you fiercely, and he tastes like soy sauce and soda, and you tangle your fingers in his hair and your nose bumps against his cheek and you can smell him, he smells like the metal he works with and like rice and soap, and you can feel his erection pulsing against your leg and he pulls away from you and turns you around, roughly, and you pull your clothes off and feel mild shock that he didn’t just do it for you but then you realize he was busy taking off his own clothes and grabbing lube and a condom, and you feel his mouth against your spine and then a hand bending you over and you’re against the counter, that should bother you, but “Oh Jesus fucking Christ Dirk–” there’s a finger inside your asshole and it’s crooking to hit your prostate and he doesn’t have to bend you over anymore, you’re bent over until your forehead is nearly touching the counter, and really who gives a shit about the counter it’s not like your dick is right up against it, especially not now you’re rocking back onto two of Dirk’s fingers, and you’re talking again, “Gonna make you scream next time I get my hands on you, gonna make you scream so loud that goddamn principal can hear you, screaming my name, and he’s gonna know that if he so much as thinks about talking shit about you I’m gonna murder his ass, you’re mine, you’re _mine_ and you know it, god, Dirk _oh god yes right there you’re perfect_ you’re mine and you’re perfect and I’m going to screw you until the day I die and when you’re not here I masturbate to you, did I ever tell you that, I can’t even screw other people anymore because I _mmph_!” There’s a towel in your mouth.

“Good to know, Dave, but you really do talk too fucking much.”

You vaguely remember him yelling at you for not talking enough, and now he’s yelling at you for talking too much, you’re pretty sure that’s hypocritical but then he withdraws his fingers and you feel his dick pushing against you, sliding inside you, stretching you wider than his fingers can, and you can hear him, his breathing, he’s lost control of the noise he makes and you can hear his breath hissing out between his teeth, you did that to him, he can go for weeks without showing any sign of emotion but your ass forces him to make noise, and his breath hitches and you can hear it and it’s because of you, and you grind your ass into him, rolling your ass in smooth circles, and he moans your name and it’s because of you, you make him lose control, you make the marble statue move, and it’s your name that he moans, and you know for a fact that he masturbates to the thought of you, you still haven’t forgotten walking in on him all those months ago, and you groan into the towel and then you realize, it’s a towel, not a gag but a towel, the boy moves at the speed of light but he couldn’t make it to your room and back, he had to grab the closest thing he could find, because of you, because you made him lose control –

He slams into you and you yell into the gag, forehead pressed against the counter, hands gripping it so hard your knuckles have turned white, and he pulls out and slams into you again and you see stars, and you hear your name, over and over again as he smashes into your prostate and grips your waist like a steel trap, you hear it, “Dave – Dave – _Dave oh god Dave_ –” and you could never even make fun of him for it because it’s incredible to hear and if you didn’t have a gag in your mouth you’d be screaming his name too, Dirk, Dirk, Dirk, just Dirk, his name, and you feel one of his arms slide around your waist as his other hand slides down to grab your cock and he’s cumming, you can feel it in the way he bites your back and in his loss of rhythm, you can hear it in his scream, and even though he’s shuddering and shaking against you he hasn’t stopped pumping your cock and you’re going to cum all over the counter and you don’t even care – and then you’re not looking at the counter anymore, you’re staring out at the kitchen, and Dirk’s hand has been replaced by his mouth, and the sudden change of sensation is all it takes to send you over the edge, you’re yelling Dirk’s name and you realize the gag is gone, he took out the gag so he could hear you scream, and you do, you scream as you explode, and Dirk’s mouth doesn’t leave – you’re still all the way inside his mouth and you’re cumming straight down his throat and he takes it all, and when your legs have turned to jelly and Dirk is pressed against you and kissing your neck, you feel proud, for one quick moment, before you realize what it is you’re proud of.

You push that thought aside and push away from the counter. Dirk groans in protest, and you wrap his legs around your waist and carry him to the shower. “Hush, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Except Colorado,” he mutters.

You choose to ignore him as you scrub him down.

You try to ignore his hardening dick.

“What, you can’t even look at me without getting hard?” You mutter. “Fucking teenager.”

“Yeah, that’s what you’ve been doing,” Dirk says snidely.

“Well, it’s useless. I just came and there is no way in hell I’ll be ready again before tomorrow morning.”

You wash yourself, in the hope that taking your hands off of him would end his hard-on, but soon he’s stroking himself as he watches you, and you can’t have that. You press him against the wall and squat, putting your mouth directly in front of his penis, and you lick it, a long stroke from base to tip, and you taste soap and salt and _him_ and it’s really not even a chore to blow him, you don’t even mind, you want to have his dick in your mouth for the rest of your goddamn life, and you listen to him hiss and moan, and you’re really glad that you’re not horny and that your mouth is full because you get to listen to the sounds he’s making with only the distraction of the water that falls on Dirk’s stomach and flows over your mouth when you take his cock down your throat.

You hum and suck until he cums down your throat, hunching over you, the sound of his yells louder than the water could ever be, and you stay where you are for a few minutes after you pull your mouth off his penis, kissing his thighs and his stomach.

He sleeps very well that night, curled up against you. You don’t sleep well at all, not because you can’t sleep, but because you don’t _want_ to sleep, you want to be aware of him in your arms and feel his chest rising against your ribs and hear his heartbeat in the silence that surrounds you, and you wonder if he’s doing the same – if he’s only got his eyes closed so that you won’t try to talk, so that he can enjoy being in your arms in silence.

You’ve never in your life felt guiltier about your impending departure.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk gets drunk.

You’re home again for Dirk’s birthday – this time, you got him a cake and you tied a bow around a brand-new Bad Dragon dildo, which he promptly shoved up your ass as he bounced on your dick – and now, three days later and your last day home, he’s lying on your chest, spent, as you trace patterns on his back, feeling goosebumps appear wherever you touch.

He mutters something.

“What’d you say?”

He buries his face in your chest and whispers it against your skin and you really, really hope that your hearing is going and he didn’t say what you think he said. “ _What_?”

“I love you,” he says, voice muffled but audible, and it’s the third time he’s said it and you can’t ignore it.

“Well, yeah, we’re brothers, sibling love and all–”

“No, not like brothers. I _love_ you.”

No, no, no, “No, no, no, you don’t–”

“I need you–”

“Physically, it’s all physical, that’s all it is, nothing more, nothing else–”

He disappears and is back half a second later, fully dressed, shades on, face blank. “I forgot to tell you, I’m going to my friend’s house. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t wait up for me.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. “Dirk–”

He’s gone.

You hear the front door slam shut.

You fucked up.

Or did you?

You told him the truth, you dispelled any weird notions of romance he’s got, and he left, he was angry with you. He wasn’t exactly wearing his emotions on his sleeve, but it didn’t matter – when he’s alone with you, he emotes, he shows you what he’s feeling, and if not, it’s because he’s hurt and angry and you swear to yourself that that’s a good thing, because you don’t have the strength to tell him that this is wrong in every way, so maybe it’s a good thing that you’re driving him away. Maybe, if he’s angry enough, he’ll hate you, and if he does that, maybe it’ll cool to indifference and he can move on, get a real boyfriend, and he can fall in love for real with someone that he can go out in public with.

You shower alone, ignoring the empty, twisting feeling in your stomach.

Your chest feels tight. Maybe you’re becoming asthmatic. You should get your heart checked out.

You stay awake until one in the morning, in spite of your joy that Dirk is moving away from you, and fall asleep on the couch, again in spite of your happiness that he’s moving on.

You snap to wakefulness as someone tugs your shirt over your head. “Dirk?”

“Iwan’ you.”

“Dirk?” His breath wafts towards you and that’s alcohol, that is definitely alcohol. “Are you drunk?”

He’s fumbling with the zipper on your pants. “I. I wan’ you… t’ _fuck_ me.”

“Not while you’re drunk,” you insist, pulling his hands away from your zipper.

He takes his hands out of your grip and pulls his shirt off, and this is the first time in your life you’ve ever seen him undress – normally, his clothes just disappear. He’s never moved this slowly before. “ _Yeesss_ whal’ ah’m drunk,” he slurs, the Texan accent that he got rid of by the age of ten leaking into his voice.

“No, Dirk–”

And now you’ve got a problem, as he stands up and nearly falls over. You grab his wrist, and he thanks you, speaking with the strongest Texan accent you’ve ever heard in your life. He can’t even walk straight. “How did you get home?”

“Frien’ gayve me ah rahde,” he says with a stupid grin on his face, pulling his pants off and falling back into your lap.

“If you’re so drunk you can’t flashstep, I’m not having sex with you– Dirk, stop that,” you say, pushing his hands away from your zipper.

“Whyyy _nautttt_ ,” he whines, determinedly going for your zipper again.

You try to swat his hands away but, in spite of the fact that he was moving at a normal human speed, his hands flash around yours and he’s got your dick in his hand, and he’s stroking it, and no, you can’t get hard, you’re not supposed to get hard, he’s drunk –

“Y’want mee,” he says happily. “You’re getting’ ‘arrrrrrrd.”

“No, Dirk I don’t – what are you doing?” You shriek, holding him up, using all your strength to keep him from sitting on your dick. “You’re not stretched out – I’m not lubed up at all – if you want to have sex, fine, but this is dangerous, you could get _hurt_ –”

“ _Good_ ,” he snarls, and you’re so shocked you nearly drop him. “Good, I wan’ ta be ‘urt, ah _wan_ ’ you t’urt me–”

“Dirk, you’re making no sense–” you’re digging around for lube, you know there’s a bottle in the couch somewhere, there has to be – what is he even thinking, he “wants to get hurt,” he’s _insane_ –

“T’morrow,” he growls, “Wheen ah waake up, ah want t’ stan’ up, an’–” he sways a little and tries to push down on your dick again, which is getting softer by the second. “An’ ah wanna _know_ ,” he says laboriously, “tha’ you _fucked_ me, ah wan’ yer marks _aaaalllll_ o’er mah bahdy, an’ when I go lookin’ throo th’ ‘ouse I don’ wan’ you t’ be gan, I wan’ yer cum and sa – sa-li-va aaallll ovverr me, I wan’ some _part_ o’ you t’ stay _wit’_ me, y’know–”

“We’re brothers, Dirk, you will literally have my DNA until the day you die–”

But you said something wrong, apparently, because now he’s crying, sobbing against your chest, and what little you can make out from between his heaving sobs suggests that he hates being your brother, that he wishes he weren’t so that it would be okay for him to love you and for you to love him, so he doesn’t want your DNA, but he wants you to mark him up so that tomorrow when he “can’ re- _member_ an-y-thin’ ealse” he’ll know that you were there, and then he’s kissing you, sloppily, like the first time he kissed you, and he tastes like vodka – where the hell did he go that they served him _vodka_? – and he’s grinding against you, without lube, and that’s not good, you search frantically for the lube and – found it – you slather it on your dick, and he groans and redoubles his frantic rutting, and he’s begging you to fuck him, and your dick is getting hard and it’s not your fault but you’re not really saying no and if he wants it this bad it’s not really _wrong_ it’s not like he’s not consenting he’s literally doing the opposite of not consenting, and he pushes himself up and tries and fails to guide you inside him so you help him, feeling your dick slide inside his ass, and you’re not wearing a condom, and he’s going to regret that tomorrow morning, but for now, he’s riding you, and he’s still talking and still making no sense but he’s rolling his hips and _god_ does that feel good, and you bury your face in his throat and bite down, and he moans, and you’re scooping him up, maneuvering until he’s on his back on the couch and you’re above him, using your position and control to reach more of his body, more places where you can bite and suck and leave marks and bruises, and you’re using every ounce of self-control you have to move slowly, to find that rhythm that you can keep up for an hour, and he’s not happy about that until he cums and you’re still going – a little slower, and not touching his cock or prostate, but still inside him, still moving, and then he understands – he understands that with your stamina and his teenage ability to get hard as a rock at the slightest touch, if you’re gentle enough for the moment, he can cum again, and that makes him happy, and he’s grinning up at you and breaking your heart while he does, and as you roll your hips against him you feel his cock twitch, and he’s holding on to you, hugging you to him, begging you to be rough, and when he’s hard again you grant his wish, nipping at his neck and collarbone and shoulders and lips, slamming into his ass, and he’s wrapped around you and yelling a slurred version of your name, and you wrap your hand around his cock and he gasps and rocks his hips, rocking against your hand and on your dick, and you feel his muscles tightening underneath you, and you feel your balls tightening, and he cries out as he cums and you bite down on his neck as you cum inside him, his ass squeezing you and pumping you dry as you pump his dick far longer than you should, and he’s twitching beneath you when you finally stop and kiss him, and he responds desperately and sloppily and you stand, hauling him with you to forestall his protests, and you bring him to bed with you, and he doesn’t curl up next to you like he normally does, he wraps himself around you, creating a barrier, preventing you from leaving.

When you wake up, the clock says you’ve got thirty minutes until your alarm goes off, but you can’t stay – if you stay any longer, you’re not going to leave. “Dirk,” you whisper.

He doesn’t wake up.

“Dirk?” You panic. How could you have forgotten how drunk he was last night? “Dirk!”

He rolls off of you, and you realize he’s asleep.

Fast asleep, for maybe the first time in his life.

He’s breathing just fine, in any case.

You fill two glasses with water and place them next to a couple Advil on the bedside table before you fill your suitcase and leave.

He doesn’t wake up.

On second thought, you run back into the house and leave a note for him to text you when he gets up.

You get the text two hours later, sitting in the airport.

 _I’m alive_.

You shove your phone into the deepest pocket in your carryon and fight the urge to cancel your ticket and go back home. 


	10. Chapter 10

You can’t help but feel bad for the woman sitting across from you.

She’s smiling desperately at you, eyes begging you to validate her choices, and you think you’re going to have to give her something.

You’ve been interviewed on this show before, but never by this woman, and you’ve never in your six years of fame been asked such incredibly impersonal questions. No interviewer has ever avoided your personal life so delicately, or given you such an awesome opportunity to discuss your movies. Guaranteed, this poor woman begged her bosses to give her this chance, and they did, and nothing much came of it, and she’s gonna get screwed over if you don’t do something interesting within the next five minutes.

You smile at her.

Her facial expression remains professional and calm, but this is the first time you’ve smiled on camera, and if you were she, you’d be internally melting into a puddle of promised promotions and raises.

“I have to thank you, actually. No other interviewer has ever been so respectful about my personal life, or given me such an awesome opportunity to discuss my passion, my movies. I’m impressed. Whoever picked you to interview me knew what they were doing.” There, now you helped her _and_ yourself, by guaranteeing that every interviewer for the next year will only ask you questions about your movies.

Four minutes left.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you recognize the sequence of buzzes you programmed for Rose. Why is she calling you? She knows you’re in the middle of something. You ignore it, and answer the interviewer’s question about where you got the idea for the second plot twist in your latest ironically awful movie.

It buzzes again.

“Is that your phone, Mr. Strider?” The interviewer asks with a laugh. “How did you manage to keep it? Usually they take it before you go onstage.”

It stops buzzing. “Oh, they did. I just took it back.”

It buzzes again. You’re starting to get worried.

“Is there a problem?” She asks, and you can see she’s trying to make light of an awkward situation; the phone is buzzing against the chair, and you’re pretty sure that the noise was caught on camera.

“God, I hope not.”

“Is it your producer?”

You shake your head. “My cousin.”

It buzzes a fourth time. The interviewer’s forehead is creased, but you see her eyes flickering back and forth. “It appears to be urgent. Why don’t you take the call? We’d all love to know that everything’s okay.”

You can’t even be surprised by her offer. Here’s a chance to eke out some detail about your personal life, and that’s great, but you can see that she’s honestly curious; who calls their famous cousin four times with – you check the clock – three minutes left to go in a live, televised interview?

You’re too worried to turn the offer down. You answer the phone. “Rose?”

“Dave,” her voice is tense and anxious, “did you bring Dirk with you?”

“Did I – what? Here? No. Why?”

“He’s not home.”

You sit up, your heart racing. “No note?”

“Well, yeah, but it says he’s gone and he ain’t comin’ back. It says that you probably won’t even notice; you’re never home anyway. It says it’s not a big deal.”

“He ran away?” And you can hear your voice rising, rising past the low, controlled pitch and volume you use for every interview, and you see the interviewer’s eyebrows shoot up at your words, and you know the camera is zoomed in on your face, but Dirk –

“That’s what it looks like,” Rose answers grimly.

“You checked the house? You’re sure he’s not just hiding? There aren’t any other notes?” Dirk might still be home, he might not have left, he could be flashstepping circles around Rose and she’d never notice, he’s faster than you can ever know –

“I’ve checked the house. There’s no sign he’s here.”

“I’m on my way,” and you’re standing up, and the interviewer is asking you what’s wrong, and the clock says there’s still a minute left, but you’re shaking your head and apologizing but your _little brother is missing_ and you’re waving her away but you miscalculate your waves and head shakes and you hit your shades and they fly off your face and maybe if you were Dirk you could have caught them and replaced them before she even noticed but you’re not Dirk and you were caught by surprise just as much as she was and she stares at your candy-red eyes and you know for a fact that your eyes are being broadcasted all over TV right now but you’re gone, flashstepping out of the building, and you’re in your car and dear _god_ the sun is bright and you don’t just wear the shades to look cool or hide your eyes you wear them because your eyes are sensitive in a way normal eyes aren’t, but it’s okay, there’s a second pair of shades in your car, and you slide them on as your phone buzzes again but it’s not Rose, it’s a chief of police, asking when you last saw Dirk and you can’t figure out how or why a chief of police is talking to you but you remember, live televised interviews are live and televised and everyone saw, everyone knows what’s going on, and Rose probably called the cops already. “Two days ago. I saw him two days ago, right before I left.” You’re a fuckup, you scheduled a fucking interview just days after your brother’s birthday, why did you do that, why did you leave him?

“Have you talked to him since then?”

“N – wait, yes, a couple hours after I left he texted me, but it was mostly because I didn’t say goodbye – he was asleep when I left, he was angry about that, I haven’t heard from him since–”

“Ms. Lalonde says she talked to him on the home phone yesterday.”

“Yeah, she probably did, she checks up on him while I’m gone–” you’re speeding up, weaving between cars, heading for the airport but that means you have to fly and that takes hours, getting through security takes hours, and it’s not like there’s any point in going home, Dirk could be in another country–

“We’ve checked all records in every local airport, and no one has his name, so he hasn’t flown anywhere. I noticed that he doesn’t have a car, despite his age–”

“He doesn’t need one–”

“Opinions aside, it means we can’t track his car–”

“No, officer, it ain’t an opinion–” your accent is coming out, that’s not good – “Dirk doesn’t need a car, he has absolutely no need of one, he can get literally anywhere, and there’s no point in checking transportation centers, he doesn’t need any form of transportation–”

“Mr. Strider, I understand that this is a difficult time, but if he planned on going much farther than the nearest park, he needed some form of transportation, it’s common sense–”

You smash your hand against the steering wheel. How the hell do you make him understand – wait, he’s saying something, but not to you – and then he _is_ saying something to you, “Dirk has been spotted, he’s standing in the middle of the street, all the way across town – we’re surrounding him–”

“No – no don’t do that–” you yell helplessly. “He’ll get scared, he’ll leave–”

“Mr. Strider, I think you underestimate the ability of the police force to bring in one seventeen-year-old – does he have a sword?”

“A katana, he won’t use it unless he feels threatened and he won’t injure or kill anyone–” there’s yelling in the background.

You get out of your car and, thank god, you recognize the woman who takes it – she lets you rush past her, and you know she’ll just bill you later –

“Where did he go? Strider – explain what the fuck just happened!” The officer is yelling into the phone as you print off a last-minute ticket for a plane leaving in twenty minutes – it’s not even full, you’re thanking god so desperately you sound religious –

“Flashstepping. I figured out how to do it when I was younger and I taught Dirk to do it. He was faster than me by the age of five and he’s faster than me now, do _not_ try to surround him or bring him in, I’m getting on a plane – well – through security right now – hold on–” you drop the phone into a basket and move through security at top speed, immensely grateful that you’ve got nothing on you but your phone, keys, and wallet – and you grab it out of the basket as you pull your shoes on and set off at a run towards your gate. “I’m getting on a plane, I won’t be able to talk, but if you see him, text me his location – don’t try anything – don’t get to close to him – he’ll just leave, he can be across the country in two minutes flat, and if I’m flying over there–” you’re the last person on the plane, they’re about to close the doors, thank god the man there recognizes you – “Please, please don’t scare him into leaving the state, it takes long enough to fly over to Texas. I’ve gotta go now, text me if you see him, I’ll be there in a couple hours.” You hang up without waiting for him to answer and immediately shoot off an email to your secretary, John, asking him to please make sure the car company at the Colorado airport gets paid and to have one of your cars waiting for you when you get off the plane.

The flight is the worst of your life; people are staring at you from aisles away, and maybe a portion of it is the way your legs are jittering uncontrollably, and maybe a portion of it is because of your frantic phone call that didn’t end until you were seated, but most of it is probably because your interview was one of the things keeping people entertained while they waited for their flight and now most of the people on here know what your eyes look like.

It’s knowledge that, previously, only your family had, because the rest of your family has fucked-up eyes too. Rose’s eyes are pink; she passes it off as colored contacts. Her sister Roxy’s eyes are purple, but in the right lighting, she can pass them off as blue. You and Dirk, on the other hand – well, you’ve got your demonic red eyes, and his are orange, and you remember his eyes and your chest feels hollow and your stomach twists, and you can’t drink the water that the flight attendant places in front of you because you’re pretty sure you’re going to puke.

As the flight goes on, your arms feel increasingly empty, and you can almost feel Dirk’s body against yours but you can’t, it’s not there, _he’s_ not here, you want him here, need him here, you need to feel him and hear him laugh and talk and you want to sit with him in the shower and listen to him talk until the hot water runs out and you want to make him eggs so that when he stumbles into the kitchen he can eat with you and you want to make him dinner that you can taste on his lips and you –

You love him, not just in a brotherly way, you love him, and it’s screwed up for so many reasons but it’s too late to back out now, you’re in too deep, you want him and only him and always him, forever, because without him you feel empty, and it’s been like that for a while but you never connected the feeling to him, you never _dared_ connect the feeling to him, you kept telling yourself it was because you were getting tired of hotel rooms but now, now, the truth is staring you in the face, and if you were a good person you’d ignore it and tell Dirk he has to go live with Rose and you can’t talk to him anymore and this all has to stop, but if you were a good person you never would have jerked him off the first time. You’re a selfish dick who tried to do the right thing and put distance between yourself and Dirk but you’re selfish, you didn’t try hard enough, and you didn’t make anything better, you just made it a thousand times worse and now there’s nothing you can do, or, there is, you’re just not going to do it.

When the plane finally lands and the doors open, you’re the first person off – the only one without a carryon to find and haul off the plane with you.

You’re running again, running through the airport, and your car is waiting for you and John gets out of it, saying something about how his friend is right around the corner waiting to pick him up so you can just go, and all you get out of it is that you can leave without worrying about him, and you do.

You check your texts and call the police officer and he lists the places Dirk’s been and you can’t figure out why he’d be in any of them and you promise to call if you think of anything and you’re fifteen minutes away from the last place he was sighted when you figure it out, when the names and letters arrange themselves in your head to form the name of the park you took him to when he was little – “Take the first letter of the street name of each street on which he’s been spotted and that’s it, that’s _it_ –”

“Isn’t that a little complicated?” The officer asks doubtfully. “It seems like a long stretch–”

“And that’s Dirk, that’s what he does, it makes perfect sense–” and as you make the fastest left turn you’ve ever made in your life you understand that Dirk is manipulating you again, he wants to know how much you care, how much you can remember, if you’re willing to think through names until you find a pattern, if you’re willing to go find him – and you don’t care, you’re glad he’s manipulating you and not running away outright, you’ll willingly be manipulated for the rest of your life if it means you can always find Dirk –

As you close in on the park, you feel every particle in your body stretching towards him, pulling towards him, and when your car screeches to a stop just seconds ahead of an entire fleet of cop cars, you see him standing there, in black pants and a black turtleneck, katana in hand, shades on and angled towards you. He’s perfectly still, a marble statue that breathes.

You get out of the car and stand there, watching him.

You can feel his eyes burning through you.

You can feel the policemen around you holding their breath. They’ve been driving around for hours, chasing smoke, and they want this to be over, they want you to grab him, and you know that any other seventeen-year-old who ran away wouldn’t be given half this much attention but you also know that if they didn’t devote their attention to this, the runaway brother of a famous writer, they’d be damned by the media.

You take a step forwards. Just one, single, slow step.

He doesn’t move.

“Hey, Dirk.”

He doesn’t respond.

You don’t know what he’s waiting for.

You wonder if this is a test – if you can pass the test, he’ll come home, but if you say the wrong thing, he’ll disappear forever.

The thought makes your heart stop beating for a moment.

You take another step forward. You don’t know what to say. I’m done with movies? I’m coming home for good? I’m never going back to Colorado again? You don’t mean any of those. You know you’ll bring him with you when you go and you’ll never be apart from him again, but that’s all you know, and how can you say that within earshot of every policeman in town without making it sound strangely incestuous? Of course, it _is_ incestuous, but no one else needs to know that.

You take off your shades. It’s not like you’ve got to hide your eyes from anybody anymore. You blink against the burning light, but ignore it. “Do you mind if I come over there?”

He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t disappear.

You flashstep over to him and stand there, a foot away, and you want to kiss him, but you have a feeling that that wouldn’t go over too well with the cops surrounding you.

He doesn’t move.

“I figured something out, Dirk,” you say softly, far too quietly for anyone else to hear. “While I was on the plane. I realized that–” you want to put this in a nice way, in a way that doesn’t terrify you, but there’s really no way to do that. “Dirk, I’m in love with you.” And when you say it, it’s almost silent – really, you can barely hear it, but you know Dirk does, because his shoulders relax infinitesimally and then you’re hugging him, your arms wrapped around him, and you’re muttering again – “I love you and I’m never leaving you and if I have to go on hiatus until you graduate then that’s what I’m doing, I’m never leaving you again–” and slowly, his muscles unclench and he melts against you but then –

“Dave,” he says, and you let go of him and turn around to see the Chief of Police heading towards you, and Dirk stiffens but you grab his arm – he won’t run if you’re holding onto him, you know he won’t, he never does.

“Is our job here done?” The officer asks. You can see relief in his eyes; if any of this ends up in the news, which it will – especially with its rather ostentatious beginning – no one will be able to fault him or his team for their reaction, no one can say a word against them.

“Yes, Chief. Thank you for keeping track of him until I got here. There are a lot of people who would have gotten impatient or shot at him, and you never did. Thank you for that.” Today seems to be your day for thanking people.

The chief relaxes. “You’re welcome.” He turns to Dirk. “You should teach me how to flashstep,” he laughs. “Make my life easier.”

“I’m going home,” Dirk mutters, and you release him. He absconds.

The officer raises his eyebrows. “That would be incredible, if he hadn’t been using it to disappear on me all day.”

“He could do that by the time he was five. Imagine trying to take care of a five year old who could be out of the house and a mile away in the blink of an eye.” Actually, speaking of eyes – you slide your shades back on and a headache you didn’t know you had vanishes.

The officer shakes his head. “Incredible.” He sighs. “Well, I’ll let you get home. _Please_ don’t let him run away again.”

You give him a mock salute. “I’ll do my best.” You’re in your car and driving away before he has time to react.

When you pull up to your house, there’s an army of paparazzi waiting for you, swarming your car and snapping pictures through the windshield. Damn – you’ve managed to keep your house off the map since your first interview, but you suppose people know about it now. You’re going to have to start keeping the curtains and blinds closed.

You exit the car, incredibly grateful to your shades for minimizing the effects of the flashing cameras.

“Why did your brother run away?”

“You and he seem very attached. What prompted his leaving?”

“Would you talk about your eyes and your brother’s speed?”

You hold up a hand, silencing them. “When I first started out as a screenwriter, I was following a passion from when I was younger, perfecting characters I first drew when I was nine. My screenplay was picked up very quickly, and I insisted on having a hand in its production; I didn’t believe it would bring in much money, so I wasn’t worried about whether or not it was accessible, but about whether or not it fit my vision.” They’ve all heard the story before, but still, they’re quiet, sensing that if that were all you were going to say, you wouldn’t have bothered saying it at all. “It brought in far more money than I ever expected, and I began writing more, getting more involved in the production and the direction, and most of it was filmed in Colorado, so I spent most of my time there. I never brought my brother with me; I was happier having him here, away from everything, out of the spotlight, with his friends and our cousins. As the years went on, and I spent more and more time in Colorado, I continued excusing my behavior, believing that it was for his own good. However, Dirk has been saying for quite some time that he’d be happier with me home, and today’s events were the culmination of two years of arguments and excuses on my part. I had lots of time to think, on the flight over, and I’ve decided that I will probably go on hiatus, or schedule trips to Colorado for times when Dirk can come with me without missing school. Of course, he’s only got a year and a half left of high school – and with his current grades and class schedule, he could probably graduate a year early – and, if he doesn’t object, I might permanently move out to Colorado, where there are plenty of good universities and he could continue his education without being too far away. I will not be commenting on anything else.” You give the entire speech in your usual Interview Voice – low, nearly monotone, and without a change in facial expression. But as you turn away, they swarm you, yelling about eyes and speed, and if you don’t address it they’re probably going start calling you vampires soon. You turn and pull your shades down so they can see your eyes, and grin. “We’re a strange family.” You flashstep inside, and to their slow eyes, you’re ninety-nine percent sure it looks like you evaporated into thin air.

You don’t think you’d mind being called a vampire.

You take a deep breath, relieved to be inside, and then Dirk is hugging you, not even kissing you, just hugging you, molding his body to yours, and your arms are full of him and he’s real and solid and perfect and incredible, and he smells like sweat and the winter air and you pull him to you for a kiss and his cold lips taste like snow and it really has been colder than usual this year, maybe you should stop calling Dirk _marble_ and start calling him _ice_ , that would make more sense, it would explain his fluid movements and the way he melts when faced with warmth, and when he pulls away he’s smiling, and you know he heard what you said outside. “Did you like my plan?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Did the paparazzi get you when you came home?”

He leans back so he can stare at you, and he’s not wearing shades, and it’s a relief, you love his eyes, and he says, “Dave. Are you _insane_? Of course they didn’t get me! They were waiting at every door and didn’t even notice me go inside, they didn’t notice a thing until I closed the curtains and the blinds, and then they freaked out, they thought you had a timer on or something, it looked like all the curtains shut at the same time – fucking idiots–”

You grin at his jittery happiness, and he grins back, and it’s incredible, he only ever smiles at you, no one else gets to see him happy but you, you don’t know why but he loves you, and you don’t know how you got this lucky – or maybe you didn’t, he’s still your brother, and you’ll never be able to hold his hand outside or kiss him impulsively in a restaurant, but still, he’s yours, and you’re happy and he’s happy and yeah, you consider this pretty lucky.

You kiss him and he grabs you and pulls you into the bedroom and says “fuck me” in the neediest, most breathless voice you’ve ever heard, and you can’t deny him when he asks like _that_ , and suddenly, an old memory blossoms in your mind, and – “Do you have any particular preference for what we do?”

Dirk looks at you wearily. “If you ask for vanilla sex or some shit, I swear–”

You laugh. “No. What I have in mind is _not_ vanilla.”

“What is it?”

You pull his shirt off, and immediately understand why he was wearing the turtleneck – his body is covered in fading bruises and barely healed bite marks, and you remember giving them to him a couple days ago. You push him onto the bed and hold his wrists above his head and kiss every single bruise, every single bite, and Dirk sighs, and it’s a beautiful noise, you should record it, play it over and over again, put it in your movies so everyone can hear that noise because it’s heavenly, and it turns into an incredibly pornographic moan as you pull off his pants.

You take your time digging out the box, feeling Dirk’s frustration build with every unnecessary second it takes you.

You cuff his hands to the headboard and pull two silk ties out of your wardrobe and use them to tie his knees up to the headboard next to his wrists.

You can hear his shallow, irregular breathing.

“Where’s your birthday present?” You ask.

“Under the bed. Yours, not mine.”

You grope around under your bed until you find the vibrating dildo you got him a few days ago. “Wonderful.”

You blindfold him. You miss his eyes, but you stand back and – almost there. Almost.

You breathe hot air against his asshole, and he twitches and moans. “Shh,” you breathe. “I have no idea how well insulated these walls are, and if anyone hears you – shit’s gonna go down.” You tongue his ass. His moan is muffled; you glance up and see him pressing his lips together, and you know that if you could see his eyes, they’d be squeezed shut.

You lube up your fingers, watching him grow frustrated as you take your time, watching precum leak out of his dick, watching his muscles jump and twitch in anticipation.

You slide a finger up his ass, listening to him breathe deeply, controlling his inhales and exhales, trying to relax as you slide in a second finger and begin scissoring, feeling him squeezing your fingers, waiting for you to hit his prostate, but you have better ideas.

When he’s loose enough, you slide your cock ring over his neglected dick and push the vibrator up his ass.

You turn it on high and wiggle it around until he arches his back and screams through a tightly closed mouth and you know you’ve found his prostate.

You let it fall as you find another tie and a gag. “I’ll make your job easier, shall I?” you say smoothly as you gag him. He moans.

You push the vibrator back up his ass and wrap the tie around the vibrator and his legs, holding it in place.

You stand back and feel a grin spread across your face.

You want to take a picture, but you’re terrified that someone will get a hold of your phone.

So you commit it to memory instead.

His hands tied and useless above his head, his legs spread and tied, cock twitching, eyes covered with a blindfold, his back arched and his head thrown back and to the side as he screams, his noises muffled by the gag.

Your hand slides to your rock hard dick as you watch, stroking gently, but no – you’ve got shit to do.

You turn the vibrator down to low as you kiss his thighs, his hips, his stomach, the head of his cock, his chest, his arms, the soft inside of his elbows, his ears, his throat, his forehead. You pull the gag out of his mouth so that you can kiss him properly as you kneel over him with one leg on either side of his waist, each leg situated between his legs and his torso, sliding your fingers in and out of your ass as you loosen yourself up. “You remember the safeword?” You whisper, your voice shaking a little as you insert a third finger.

“P – platypus, why – _mmm,_ ” he says, stuttering as he gathers all of his self-control and forces the words out around his moans.

You kiss him again. “Just checking,” you say softly before stuffing the gag back in his mouth and lowering yourself onto his cock.

He yells what you’re pretty sure was supposed to be your name.

You bob up and down as slowly as you possibly can, taking your time, getting used to the feel of him in your ass, listening to his muffled screams of frustration.

You turn the vibrator back up to high.

His screams are no longer frustrated ones.

You rock back and forth and roll your ass against his balls and bounce up and down, you should be a prostitute, you’d make incredible amounts of money, you’d be the favorite, and _oh you found the angle it’s there right there_ and you’re not even trying anymore, you’re just slamming yourself down onto his dick because it’s like god himself is shining down on you this is incredible you don’t even want to cum because that would mean this was over and you want to hear Dirk scream and moan and you pull off of him, probably giving yourself blue balls, and flashstep around the house faster than you’ve ever moved in your life, checking outside the windows, and there’s only one lone paparazzi and – nope – he’s getting in his car and you run back and pull the gag out of Dirk’s mouth and drive yourself down on his cock and you were right he’s screaming your name and moaning your name and gasping for breath with your name lingering on his lips and you lean down and kiss him, ravaging his mouth, making him well aware of your skilled tongue as if he wasn’t already aware that your mouth made magic happen and he’s straining up to meet you and his hips can’t move but his head can and he’s stretching up to meet your lips and he tastes like heaven and you have no idea how you ever managed to leave for extended periods of time when Dirk was here and now you’re saying his name, you’re yelling his name as you rub your dick, as you cum all over his chest, as you shake into near oblivion with vibrations and the pleasure of the tightness of your ass around his dick and your hand around your own cock, and for a moment you’re riding a tidal wave of pure bliss, the entire world has faded to just you and Dirk and his body underneath you and inside you and your legs trapped between his legs and his waist and the absolutely incredible noises he’s making and oh yeah he still hasn’t gotten to cum has he, you’re being a bad brother. You pull yourself off of him with a hiss and untangle yourself from him, and you undo his blindfold and watch his eyes twitch for a moment before sliding down and licking a long stroke up his dick. His eyes find yours, and he’s beyond words but his eyes are communicating just as loudly, and you pull the cock ring off and take his entire penis into your mouth as he cums down your throat and his body spasms and he screams and his eyes aren’t looking into yours anymore they’ve rolled back into his head, and when he’s spent and twitching you turn off the vibrator and ease it out of his ass, watching his face for signs that you’re hurting him. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open slightly, and he’s gasping like he’s been slowly suffocating his entire life and this is the first time he’s getting the air he needs. You untie his legs, helping him straighten them out slowly, one at a time, and you unlock the shackles around his wrists. You grope around the floor in the dark and find his turtleneck, which you use to clean off his chest.

You lie down next to him and pull him against you. He mutters something.

“What?”

“You talk too fuckin’ much.”

“I do _not_ , I made sure I didn’t say the things I was thinking–”

“You said everything. Every single word.”

“I definitely did not–”

“’I should be a prostitute,’” he says in a high-pitched voice. “’I’d make incredible amounts of money’ – like you don’t already– also, you’re not _that_ good, don’t kid yourself–”

“Hey, at least I have the control to say actual words, you can only ever say my name–”

“You try having a vibrator pressed against your prostate for twenty minutes straight, see how coherent you are–”

“Nah, I’m not enough of a twink–”

“Like hell you’re not–”

You kiss him, hard enough to shut him up but gently enough that he knows what you’re still having trouble saying, that you love him, that this isn’t just physical.

He falls asleep wrapped around you, but he’s not trying to hold you down – he knows you’re staying. He’s just trying to get closer to you. And you can handle that.


	11. Chapter 11

When you wake up, Dave’s back is to you, your arm is wrapped around his waist, your forehead is pressed against his hair, and your morning wood is pressed against his ass.

You place gentle kisses down his neck, and he sighs sleepily and rocks his ass against you. You move your hand down to grasp his slowly hardening erection, rubbing it gently, remembering that you didn’t exactly have the gentlest sex last night.

Dirk begins rocking into your hand and rolling his ass against your dick. His sighs are turning into soft moans.

You twist away to grab the bottle of lube off your bedside table, covering your fingers with it as you push them one by one into his ass, still a little loose from last night. He bucks and gasps raggedly when you hit his prostate.

“You sure you’re up for this?” You ask him quietly. “If you’re too sore from last night–”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine, don’t stop–”

You stretch him out carefully, tenderly, sliding your arm under his head and using it to prop yourself up, putting you at the perfect angle to watch his face as you pull your fingers out and pull his top leg up, giving you better access to his ass, and guide yourself inside him. He groans and turns his face to the side, burying it in your arm with a whimper.

“Dirk–”

“I said don’t stop,” he says breathlessly, so you let go of his leg and wrap your arm around it instead, freeing up your hand so you can stroke his dick, slowly, doing your best not to hurt him.

You’re too tired to move fast, and you’re pretty sure Dirk is too sore for that anyway, so you rock lazily inside him, moving at the most leisurely pace at which you’ve ever had sex.

Dirk says something that you’re probably not supposed to hear, but your mouth is on his shoulder and that puts your ear right next to his mouth, and you make out the words “I love you” and you freeze, and he stiffens when he realizes he said it, but you’re still holding on to him so he won’t run and he doesn’t, he stays right there, and you’re smiling when you purr “I love you, Dirk,” in his ear, and at that he gasps and bucks his cock into your hand, and the way he tightens around you completely undermines your self-control and you lose your rhythm, and when he cums he yells your name and presses his forehead into your arm and you hear him say he loves you and you know he does and you know you love him and being inside him is safe and his body feels like home and that’s the thought that does it for you and you don’t want to cum inside him so you pull out, cumming all over his back instead.

You shower together, kissing under the hot jet of water and scrubbing the evidence of last night and this morning off each other, laughing when Dirk gets soap in his eyes and choking when you inhale a stray soap bubble. You pull on sweatpants and hand Dirk your sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, and he turns on the TV while you make him eggs.

You hear your own voice floating in from the kitchen: “I never brought my brother with me; I was happier having him here, away from everything, out of the spotlight, with his friends…” and you wonder how the fuck crime is down to the point where they can just broadcast your interview on the news because nothing more important is going on.

Dirk switches the channel when you come in with the plates, and you watch My Little Pony for at least an hour with him cuddled against you, head on your shoulder.

You kiss his forehead.

“I love you.”


End file.
